


If not tomorrow (then tomorrow, and tomorrow)

by muffin_song



Category: Groundhog Day - Minchin/Rubin
Genre: Canon Continuation, F/M, Post-Loop, references to past suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2018-12-18 13:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11875785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muffin_song/pseuds/muffin_song
Summary: Time starts moving again, and Phil learns to do the same.





	1. Chapter 1

The first day, Phil is so overcome with the thought of “Today is _tomorrow_ ” that he has little space for anything else.  Well, besides the fucking incredible woman next to him resting her head on his shoulder as they watch the sun rise.  Rita’s breathing is soft and steady and he can hear her chest rise and fall.  Phil’s never been this close for long enough to notice how nice her hair smells - like strawberries or flowers or whatever else is in her shampoo.  Even back in his 7 AM forecast days, Phil was never been a morning person.  But he’s so ready to convert if this comes with the daily package.

For all the excitement of this new world, he doesn’t know if he actually wants time to start moving again - 7:30 on February 3rd sounds like a pretty nice place to stay for a while.  As the sky slowly fades from warm peach to a gentle blue, it occurs to Phil that his life up until now has been split into uneven halves.  If his first life was as a narcissistic misanthrope and his second as a prisoner-turned-student of time, then Phil is certain he’s being reborn a third time with the rising of the sun.

Rita is wonderfully ignorant of all of this and eventually starts restlessly strumming her fingers in an irregular rhythm over his arm.  “Someone’s impatient,” Phil muses, his lips curving into a smile.

“You,” Rita jabs a finger into the crook of his elbow for emphasis. “Promised me we had a lot more to do today.”

“Did I now?  I just figured we’d go back to the station, maybe see if we can make it in time for the business meeting and-” Something jabs sharply into arm.  “OW!”  The word comes out, but he’s laughing.   “Are you sure it’s TV production and not assassination that is your forte, Rita?”

“It’s not my fault, you’re the one who had your elbow in the wrong place.  Slowpoke.  C’mon, I’ve heard the sticky buns at the diner are to die for.”

Leave it to this woman to make even the goddamn sticky buns new again.  And while he could practically write a dissertation on Rita’s love of pastries, he’s never seen her eat one on _this_ day, when they’re together early in the morning and Punxsutawney is blanketed in unblemished snow.  So Phil offers Rita an arm up from the bench, and when she’s standing she slips it through her own.

The Punxsutawney of February 3rd is strangely quiet compared to its next door neighbor on the calendar.  When the general store comes into view he expects to see Mrs. Lewis stepping out after her argument with her husband.  Obviously that landmark is gone, but he should really check in on how Jane and Mark are doing later.  They really do have a lot going for their relationship if they would just stop and listen to each other.

“Hey there, Mr. Connors!” someone calls from the street.  Oh yeah, Maureen - the vet tech with the flat tire.  Phil waves back - was it yesterday that they talked about her kids, or was that earlier in the loop?  He would have paid more attention if he knew yesterday would be the version of February 2nd that counted.  (But maybe that was the point). 

Further down the sidewalk the sheriff looks up from where he’s reading his paper on the bench and tips his hat in greeting.  Oh yeah, this is what happens happens - people _know_ Phil - when yesterday actually is a thing.  Was a thing.  That’s really going to take some getting used to.

“How is it that you come here once a year and you’re friends with everybody in town?” Rita muses.

“It’s the whole TV celebrity thing.” Phil replies with confidence.  His companion raises a quizzical eyebrow.  “Okay, quasi-celebrity.”  Rita still looks dubious.  “Guy who goes on about the weather...who...shows up on their news a lot.  They see me through the screen, I see back.  Creepy, but great for getting to know people en masse.”

“I guess you could have worse superpowers.”

“It has its perks.”

They reach the door of the Punxsutawney Diner.  (Rita’s definition of doing more today includes food first - yet another reason to add to the list of why he’s so smitten with her).  Phil’s never seen it this quiet before.  Even if he skipped getting dressed in the morning, the soonest he could make it over was 6:15, and apparently the annual groundhog tourists got hungry early.

Doris cheerily waves them inside, telling them to sit wherever they’d like.  She still has a glow about her from yesterday.  Doris probably needed faith more than singing lessons or help with tuning.

There’s a song Phil has never heard before on the radio.  (This really is happening).  He and Rita order omelette specials and a ridiculous assortment of pastries.  Phil can’t stop Rita in time before she tries the custard donut.  He tries a bite in solidarity.  Rita agrees (out of Doris’s earshot) that it’s probably the most disgusting thing she’s ever eaten.

At least the sticky buns are a hit.  Crystallized sugar gets stuck on Phil’s fingers when he breaks off a piece.  (This is real).  They chat carelessly about everything and nothing, from worst local business commercials to the probability of humans being around in a million years to really, really forgettable Simpsons episodes.  Phil wonders how he ever could have ever thought he knew everything about her.

Outside again, Rita brushes a stray crumb off his cheek with her fingers.  She’s really here.   

Phil catches her palm on its way back down.  Rita’s hand tenses ever so slightly, a question in her eyes.  Shit, wrong move here?  Despite their easy affection all morning, he can’t expect to take any casual moments for granted.  When it comes down to it Phil is terrified for the inevitability of Rita waking up and wondering what the hell she was thinking last night.  Or when he wakes up from this dream and it’s still yesterday.

Phil has spent eternity in love with this woman.  Or maybe it’s not fair to call it real love when he spent a million years damned and only ever had the smallest sliver of her, but either way there’s no reset if he fucks up this time.  How ironic when he finally got used to not worrying about the stakes.

But Rita’s eyes are full of bemusement, and more importantly, trust.  Screw it, he thinks, back to only living once now.  Phil pulls her closer and kisses the temple of her forehead gently and her hand finds his back.  They bump noses on the way to finding mouths and Rita lets out something between a giggle and a snort and it tickles his chin.  He swears he can still taste the ill-fated custard.

When they break apart, Rita is grinning.  “So, what do people do for fun in small towns?”

Thankfully he has this one covered.  It’s not cheating, he literally has done everything there is to do around here.  Well, that’s probably not true - before the loop ended he had been meaning to challenge Fred to Grand Theft Auto again, now that he finally got the hang of the school bus.  And to see if he can start on the next movement of Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique.  Well, time may be moving, but there’s still opportunities for those things.

“Today’s…Thursday, right?”  (Oh God how long has it been since this was relevant?)  “There’s something I want to check out at the public library.”

Rita looks unconvinced.  “I like reading as much as the next person - okay, probably a lot more, but this is really all you could come up with for Date Two?  I thought there would be more cows to tip around here.”

“No, no, yesterday I was on assignment, that didn’t count as a date.”  He regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth.  Spontaneously hooking up with your co-worker after the job is awkward enough without reminding them both of it.  What he really meant to say was, ‘I knew I would never deserve you, so I stopped trying to do anything but make your February 2nd a little bit better.  You’re here and I still don’t know _how_.‘

“I mean, they take playing in the Groundhog Band very seriously around here.  So I was clearly working last night.”

Rita is graciously allowing him the out, so he continues.  “I think you might like it.  Really.”  He puts his hands up.  “And if you don’t...I’m pretty sure we can find cows somewhere around here.”

The library opens at 10.  They’re a few minutes early and wait on the steps.  Rita rubs her hands over his and eventually initiates a thumb war.  Phil would like to say he let Rita beat him, but that’s a total and complete lie.

The Punxsutawney library is small - Phil grew to know it very, very well on his February 2nds.  He glances at the “to be shelved’ cart - apparently that other Agatha Christie book did come in.  Phil wonders which Punxsutawney resident had been hoarding it all this time.  It occurs to him that as soon as they’re back in wireless range, he can read whatever he wants.  But for right now there’s _Rita._

With an exaggerated amount of pomp, he leads Rita to a large glass display case in the main room.  Inside, human Phil’s groundhog counterpart twitches his nose.  “Phil!” Rita exclaims excitedly.  Now here’s a celebrity who has no preconceived notions about how to act in public on his day off.  Pretty admirable, really.  “I always wondered where he lives when it’s not Groundhog Day.”

“I uh, hope I didn’t kill any dreams about Phil having secret tunnels under that stump or anything.”  

“Nah, I always figured he was a practical kind of groundhog.”

Phil sniffs at them a few times, and then goes back to sleep.  Rita’s gaze turns to the “Fun Phil Facts” panel underneath groundhog Phil’s enclosure.  Human Phil has memorized them, of course, but he’s never been here while the man (the groundhog?) himself was on the scene.  And it’s nice to share this with Rita.

“The groundhog burrow is used for hibernating , sleeping, bad weather retreat, nursery and...love nest?  Do I really want to know what a groundhog love nest is?”

“Probably not,” Phil concedes.

“And...a groundhog excrement chamber.”  They both pause to conceptualize that.  “Huh.”

“Who would have thought the groundhog burrow has more features than your average Manhattan apartment.”

“Hey, they pamper this guy at least.  Okay, so…” Rita’s eyes scan further down the description.  “This is the original Punxsutawney Phil from 1886, and he...gets his long life from drinking ‘groundhog punch’ at the Groundhog Picnic every year.“  Rita nods in appreciation.  She kisses the human Phil on the cheek  “Alright, you win, I learned something new, _and_ we have a lead on finding the secret to eternal life.”

Phil dismisses the notion with a wave of his hand.  “No, no, it would just bring in even more tourists.”

“I gotta know, though, are you the kind of guy who would drink the groundhog punch?”

He takes her hand as they slowly head back outside.  “I’m pretty sure it’s a groundhog only thing, and the similarities between Phil and I end with the name.”

“You sure?  I can kind of see the resemebla-”

Phil places a mock-wounded hand to his chest.  “Ms. Hanson, please know that this ego is 99% only for show.  I’m really much more fragile than I look.”

“It’s the one percent I’m worried about.  So, really, if you got cornered by a vampire or a local with groundhog punch, would you take it?

Well, that was closer to home than he was expecting right away.  There’s been no time for Phil to stop and think about how this is going to play out, but he knows that any real chance with Rita doesn’t start with telling her about how he’s a (former) god or an alien who finally learned how to turn his superpowers off.

“I mean...you could learn a lot.  I guess.  Probably a lot of things you wouldn’t have bothered with otherwise.  But...it would get boring after a while.  More just that it would be really, really lonely.  I mean, it probably would.”  A pause.  “At least you’d have plenty of time to get over yourself.” 

Rita smiles wistfully.  He’s so grateful that she’ll never know.  “Yeah.  Just makes you think."

 

* * *

 

The rest of February 3rd passes in similar small, incredible nothings.  Pointing out the hidden corners of Punxsutawney and watching Rita light up at each one.  

He’s scared out of his mind.  If he stops too long to think he’ll just freeze, so he forces himself to keep moving.  Thankfully the very genuine delights of the day are a fucking amazing distraction.

The diner is the only place to eat in town that’s open at the moment, so they return for lunch after an impromptu game of Four Square under a covered awning at the elementary school.  (That, at least, he won).

Inside Fred and Debbie are already sharing a mushroom steak burger.  They’re visibly over the moon to see him.  “Fred, Fred, Forecaster Phil is here!” Debbie whoops in delight.

Phil gives a mock-bow.  “Guilty as charged.”  He gratefully accepts a quick hug from Debbie and a clap on the back from Fred.  This may be the closest he’ll ever get to introducing Rita to any “old friends.”  All Phil has to show from eons of a life in Punxsutawney is the people of this town.  

He wouldn’t trade them for anyone in the world.  All of these people have only known _him_ for a day and yet they’ve taken him in as one of their own without a second thought.  He couldn't be luckier.

Of course Rita is instantly charmed by the young couple and wants to hear all about the door knob ring and their plans for a wrestling-themed wedding.  Phil offers to text Debbie the name of the caterer his boss keeps raving about - he’ll never reach February 2nd’s level of all-day miracles again, but he cares about these people and wants to do *something.*

At the counter, he catches Jeff and the Deputy making eyes at each other.  That’s right, they had been dancing last night - thank God Jeff finally got up the courage to ask.  Dad’s co-worker isn’t the first place to look for love, but who is he to judge?

Larry flags them down sometime between the burgers and ordering the dessert special.  He’s with Nancy, and they both have a lightness to their step.   _Good_.  Larry has more to him than you’d think, and more importantly, he’s looking at Nancy like she’s the only thing on the planet.  

Phil and Rita gratefully take Larry’s flimsy excuses for driving separately.  Larry claps him companionably on the back on the way out as if to say, “Hey, pretty good night for romance for both of us, huh?”  He’ll take it.

But eventually it gets late and he and Rita are running out of excuses to stay in town, so they finally make their way to her practical, well-loved 2005 Honda Civic.  “Sorry about the mess,” she apologizes sheepishly.  Rita’s leftover coffee cups and takeout backs are pretty endearing really.

“You should see my car.” Oh, right, he has a car - and a monthly payment.  Eh, fuck it, it’s not worth worrying about now.

Despite the snow blanketing just about everything else, the road crew has really done an amazing job - even his mom’s Volkswagen could get through this.  Probably.  A few miles later, Phil the Groundhog waves cheerily from the Leaving Punxsutawney sign.  Human Phil has “left” before of course, but it always ended in freezing to death in the snow.  Yup...right over there, that cluster of trees is probably the farthest he ever got.  Motherfucking lack of landmarks in the snow.  But they’re passing highway exit after highway exit.  They’re really leaving Punxsutawney.  

“You seem a little on edge, Connors,” Rita points out.

“What?  Er...sorry.  Guess I got a lot on my mind.”

“Well, you did have an unusually busy day yesterday.  I heard a rumor that you helped a woman deliver a baby?”

Phil scoffs and throws his hands in the air dismissively.  “I really couldn’t tell you.  I was getting something from the hospital gift shop when I heard yelling, and I swear I was just in the right place at the right time.”

“Yeah, but you did that a lot.  Were in the right place at the right time.”

“Everyone gets lucky sometimes.”  His eyes focus on Rita’s glovebox.  “I guess I’d been doing the same thing over and over again enough that…” He pauses, not allowing himself to go any further into this cloyingly accurate metaphor.  “You know, I was just stressed over things that didn’t really matter.  It just seemed like a good day to try something different.  Really glad I did.”  He tries to make his tone sound dismissive, but Rita seems to catch the weight of his words.

“You know, everyone at the station warned me about you, said that I was getting your story to produce as some kind of new producer hazing thing.”

“Oh, they’re not wrong.  I mean, about me.  I really hope that Bob didn’t assign you to me as a hazing, he always seemed nicer than that.”

“Oh, Bob is great.  But...I dunno - you’re not what exactly I’m expected.  Don’t get me wrong, good surprise.”

“Go on, I think we’ve already established that this ego takes more TLC than you’d think.”

“Well, don’t want to go overboard here.  You’re probably the most sarcastic person I’ve ever met,” Phil nods in satisfied agreement.  “But you’re also thoughtful.  And...look, I’m not really advocating for the whole ‘asshole with a secret heart of gold’ thing, but you’re a lot kinder than you let on, Phil Connors.”

Dear God I don’t deserve you, Rita.  “Be careful, I’m getting dangerously close to letting all of this go to my head.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re shit at thumb wrestling.  So what made today so much different than the flood story?”

“Because…” This may or may not be a longer conversation later.  “Look, I can’t say I’m normally a volunteering for the Groundhog Band kind of guy.  But I guess I was the kind of...I mean I have been...” He really deserves more credit for keeping track of tenses when yesterday was an eternity ago.  “Look, I was so stressed out the day we did the flood story that I hardly remember where the the flood was or where we drove.  So I’m sorry that I was an ass.”

“Butler,” Rita interjects.

He hadn’t been lying, he really didn’t remember until now. “Oh, right, the town with the really phallic looking clock tower.”  

That earns a snort from Rita.  “Okay, I’m glad it’s not just me who noticed that.”

“You’re surprising too, Rita Hanson.  

“Am I now?  I always figured I was an open book.”

“You’re a good producer,”

She’s smiling like a Cheshire cat.  “Keep going…”

“You don’t put up with crap, but I’ve also never met anyone with so much faith in the world.  In people.”

Rita nods appraisingly.  “So...the whole thing wasn’t just an act to pick up the hot new thing at work?” She says it in jest, but there’s vulnerability behind her question.

He throws his hand in the air.  “Rita, I told you, becoming an impromptu member of the Groundhog Band is really serious business.  Like, meetings with men in top hats and everything.  As it is I’m in trouble for sneaking off with the auction winner.”  He grins mischievously.  “Don’t get me wrong, I’d do it again.”

The corners of Rita’s mouth curve upwards. “I’d say it’s turned out pretty well.  It’s good to have the unexpected good stuff every now and then - keeps your faith in the universe.”

He grins. “Yeah.  It really does.”

They fall into comfortable silence.  Rita displays her solid knowledge of 90s songs lyrics (if less than solid command of pitch).  Phil is content at first to gently mock her song choices, but Rita gets the better of him on Wonderwall and he’s belting along full force by the last refrain.  He makes her solemnly promise that no word of this will ever be repeated.

Too soon, they pull up outside of Phil’s condo.  Rita gets out to help him with the bags in the trunk.  Don’t leave, he pleads silently.  I don’t know how to do any of this.  But it’s taken a lifetime to get to February 3rd, and he’s not going to blow this by acting weird.

“So…” he trails awkwardly.  “We’ll talk?” The slight quirk in Rita’s mouth conveys her disappointment.  “I mean, I’d really, really like to see you.”  His hands fidget in his coat pocket.  “When you’re not busy Associate Producing, that is.”

The crease Rita gets in her nose when she’s smiling returns.  “I’d really like that.”

There’s a lot more to be said, like how they’re going to handle this at work and what “this” is for a recovering cynic of romance and a (mostly) reformed narcissistic asshole.  But he’s content to leave it here for now with a promise of tomorrow.

Phil he kisses her gently goodnight, with a promise to talk more.  And then she’s gone and Phil is fumbling with his keys, trying to remember which one he uses for the deadbolt and which for the door.  Maybe this is all a mistake, and tomorrow he’ll wake up on February 2nd and no one in Punxsutawney will know him and Rita will still be convinced he’s an asshole.  

But even if he only gets one of these once an eternity, it’s still a fucking awesome deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Phil the Groundhog really does live at the Punxsutawney library, and the stuff about groundhog punch is based off of actual Punxsutawney folklore.
> 
> Planning on about three parts - constructive feedback always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

On the second day, Phil wakes up in his own, unfamiliar bed, in a home he hasn’t lived in for a lifetime.  

It really is February 4th then.  Still so weird.  

Phil’s not sure whose home this is any more.  Some of it still fits the person he’s become - the vinyl records he could never bear to throw out.  His favorite non-work jacket.  Other markers feel like they belong to someone else - the carefully curated artwork that (let’s face it) was solely chosen for the impression it would make on his potential conquests.  The sink full of leftover glasses of vodka and melted ice.  

Regardless, his current incarnation is the one living here now.  Phil’s never cared for decorating beyond the minimum requirements for a bachelor, but the possibilities have admittedly become interesting (if only so he can _have a say_ in what he sees when he wakes up every morning).  

Phil brushes his teeth and wonders if he’s had more mornings in Mrs. Lancaster’s B&B than the condo he’s owned for the last 10 years.  On his worst February 2nds, he wondered if the prior days of his life were just a figment of his imagination.  (Maybe gods or aliens with superpowers only had one real day plus a bunch of fake memories of whatever came before).  How long is it going to take before the balance is even again?

A face full of scruff greets him in the mirror.  Shaving really is a thing he’ll have to get the hang of again.  (He manages not to nick himself).

Phil debates just blowing off work today - he certainly has enough on his mind.  But it feels like a dick move and his own life is as good of a place as any to start his slow ease back into mortality.  

And let’s face it, he really wants to see Rita.  He texted her something dumb this morning about “You got home safe okay?”  To which her reply was, “Nope, abducted by wild buffalo.  But they’re very nice, so it all worked out. ;)”  He responded back with something about how buffalo might help with commute traffic - doesn’t look like she’s read it yet.  

Phil realizes halfway through eating his cereal that he’s checking his phone every thirty seconds like a strung-out teenager.  He shakes his head and laughs at himself.  Time to get going.

He worries he’s forgotten the route to work, but it comes back surprisingly fast.  Not for the first time Phil wonders if it’s because the neural pathways or whatever in his brain haven’t _physically_ changed since February 1st.  Or perhaps it was part of his curse to never completely lose his mind.  Or maybe it’s just the Groundhog God giving him a break for once.

The sun is out.  The way the light reflects on the Three Rivers is pretty, even if most of the snow by the banks has started to melt and mix into the roadside dirt.  Phil promises himself he’ll do his damndest never to take this for granted again.

All too soon, the Channel 5 building office is before him.  Time to predict some weather.  

Phil takes a breath, and then enters through the sliding glass door.  “Hey Amy,” he calls casually to the receptionist.

Amy looks up, surprised.  “Do you need something, Mr. Connors?”

Ah, right.  These things take time, and he’s had more of that than most of his co-workers.  No one said this was going to be easy.  And of course he can’t remember a single fact about Amy other than her name, because he never would have bothered before.  Phil silently promises to change that - this woman has been working the front desk from the day he started as a fresh-faced intern, the least he can do is know _something_ about her.  “No, no, it’s all good.  Hey...have a good one, okay?”

“Uh...sure.  Er, thanks.”

A few more co-workers greet him on the way in.  He wouldn’t say he _liked_ these people before, but it’s surprisingly good to see them.

Paul is in charge of his segments today.  Phil certainly wouldn’t say they were friends, but after 10 years of being in the same department they lived in a comfortable state of cease fire.  And for all that Paul can (deservingly) get exasperated at him, at least he gets, and even appreciates, Phil’s sense of humor.  They quickly run through the promo for the 12 o’clock news, then the notes on the upcoming cold front coming in from Ohio.  “So, Fibonacci numbers, huh?” Paul asks.

Phil wonders how long it’ll take before the entire station is convinced he’s been replaced by a pod person.  Could probably make good money that way.  He tries to laugh it off in the meantime.  “I guess it was a bit much.”  

“No, it was actually kind of nice - The remote forecasts are all about getting the quirky local perspective anyway.  And besides, the possibilities thing was a nice angle - normally we’re stuck trying to figure out how we can spin six more weeks of winter as a _good_ thing.  I just was surprised to see you in such a good mood after the amount of time you spent bitching over having to go to Punxsutawney in the first place.”

“It’s…” Phil will never be able to explain what the town became to him, for better or worse.  “You know, people asked me to give it a chance.  Can’t say it’s prime real estate, but the people really are kind when you get to know ‘em.  What they lack in good restaurants, they do make up in enthusiasm.”  He winces inwardly and sends a silent apology to Doris.

“Huh.  Did I ever tell you I was a math major in college?”

Like the route to work, Phil is surprised at how quickly he’s able to get back into this.  Hell, he’d forgotten he actually _likes_ forecasting.  The way the chaotic scribbles and notes from the meteorologists get crafted into a story, and how it’s his job to tell it.  It’s comforting to fall back into the effortless confidence that comes with being the guy who makes the weather.  Paul gives Phil a thumbs up after the cameraman calls cut.  If the staff think it’s weird that Phil high-fives them on the way out, they don’t show it.

Lunch is when Phil realizes that downtown Pittsburgh (which he never considered a particular gem of culinary excellence) is his oyster.  With his credit card, he can get _anything_ to eat.  Well, anything that will deliver at least.

Phil doesn’t remember what he orders, but when the delivery girl arrives 45 minutes later he has to help her carry three _very_ full bags in.  On an up note, this smells fucking incredible and it’s taking all of his self-control to not rip into a box like a madman.  On a less positive note, the quantity of food is ridiculous - even if Phil takes this home there’s no way he can eat it all before it goes bad.  Worse, he’s starting to get looks from his co-workers.  When he spots a scrawny looking intern, he gets an idea.  “Hey, you!” he calls.  “Er...James,” he reads from the name tag.

Oh God, the kid looks like he’s going to quake out of his Ross Dress For Less shoes.  “Uh...y-yes Mr. Connors?”

“I uh, ordered too much Chinese food.”  He gestures towards the mountain.  “I could use a little help here.”

“Uh...thanks, Mr. Connors.  Really!”  James does look genuinely touched, even if he’s not sure what’s happening with the legendarily cantankerous Phil Connors.  “But I told Ben and Ellen I would plan out our assignment for tomorrow with them.”  He gestures to a nearby table where a girl and boy about James’ age are sitting and watching the proceedings with wide eyes.

“I think there’s enough here to feed a third world country, you all might as well join.

The girl (presumably Ellen) notices the name on his takeout bags.  “Oh my God, is that Little Shanghai?”

And thus Phil finds himself having to defend his potstickers from three _very_ ravenous 19-year olds.  He never considered Little Shanghai anything to write home about before, but it may very well be the best meal he’s ever experienced.  (Oh God how many years has it been since he’s had General Tso’s Chicken?) And if there is anyone who will share in his appreciation of Chinese food - especially when it’s plentiful, it’s interns.  They have a lot of energy, sure, but they’re not nearly as cloying as he remembers.  Ben, the other boy, reminds him a little of Fred - bit of a dork, but confident and steady in his passion for the things he loves.

Phil checks his phone.  Around 10:30,  he had given into temptation and plain out asked what Rita was up to later.  Around 1, he followed up with, “I do realize this is lame.”  He hasn’t looked since the last message, and feels entitled to _something_ from the universe for this valiant show of self-control.  Still nothing.  This is ridiculous, he’s acting childishly - what can he expect from someone who’s only known him for days?

Phil spots Larry on his way to throwing out empty takeout containers.  His co-worker’s brow furrows at the sheer amount of decimated Chinese food on the tray.  He looks back at the direction Phil came from, where the interns are still laughing about some private joke.  “I didn’t realize there was a special occasion today.”

“Would you believe me if I said I really couldn’t decide, and then felt bad about the food waste?  Besides, these kids look like they haven’t eaten in a month.”  He glances around.  “Uh, you haven’t seen Rita, have you?”

“Not since yesterday.  Why, what’s up, you guys get paired together again?”

“No, no, I was just hoping to…” His face probably says it all.

“Ah.”  Phil’s almost positive that everyone else in the breakroom stopped talking right at the moment for the express purpose of making this more awkward.  Larry clears his throat.  “Look, I get it, yesterday was basically a free day off, and it’s not like I was reading professional development books while we were stuck in Punxsutawney.  But don’t you worry about either of you getting into trouble?”

Larry’s a good person.  Rita’s only been here for a few months, but Rita’s never been slow in befriending new people.  Larry’s just doing his _job_ as her friend, and Phil really can’t fault him.  No matter how many miracles he performed on February 2nd, he’d be suspicious of him too.  

Phil gestures to Larry and they step out into the hall.  “Look...guy to guy?  I didn’t go to Punxsutawney with the intention of waking up next to my co-worker the next day.”  (Okay, that’s not strictly true, but there’s enough of the truth in there).  “But I got to really spend time with Rita for the first time, and it turns out she’s fucking amazing.”  

Of course Larry catches his unintentional double entendre.

“Jesus Christ, that’s not what I meant.”  That at least earns a sympathetic laugh.  “I’d really, really like for this thing with Rita to be more than a one night stand.  And I swear I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize her job here.”  He pauses.  “Or mine, for that matter.  So just...don’t be weird about it, but don’t mention anything either?   Because seriously, we need more good producers - we’re all too stressed out as it is without putting some of these wackos in charge.  I mean, do you remember the guy before Rita, the one we were all sure was in a cult but couldn’t prove it?”

Larry nods appraisingly.  “There would’ve been a time when I would have called you on your bullshit, Phil, but something’s going on with you.  I don’t know what kind of 12-step group or whatever you’ve started going to, but...it’s a nice change.”  He claps him on the back.  “Your secret is safe with me, pal.”

“You do know I still have blackmail material on you from the apple orchard trip, right?”

“Damn, that’s low.”  But Larry is laughing.  “Seriously, I think Rita got pulled into the petting zoo story - I haven’t seen her since this morning.  Did you try texting her?”

 

* * *

 

By the time they start reviewing notes for the evening weather, Phil has mentally compiled a long list of ways he has probably screwed this one up.  And really, what did he expect?  Rita may have saved Phil’s sanity and soul throughout his endless February 2nds, but doesn’t know any of that.  Maybe someone at the station talked some sense into her.  If so, good for them.  And what school-boyish right does he think he has to any claim on Rita anyway?

So of course Phil’s heart lurches when he finally spots Rita at the all-station meeting at the end of the day.  The entire staff is crowded around an ill-fitting circular conference table.  She’s sitting in the back and laughing with some of the tech crew - leave it to Rita to have worked here for a month and already be friends with all the people he never bothered to learn the names of.  

He tries waving a hand, but at that exact moment Juan from marketing drops a stack of papers and of course Rita goes to help him pick it up.  Phil’s arm falls limply at his side.  And God dammit Brian from management looks intent on achieving that once-in-a-lifetime punctual meeting start.  

Two and a half hours in, Phil’s apprehension gives way to the boredom more typical of these meetings, mixed with some thoroughly melodramatic despair for good measure.  For all that Pittsburgh and his own life are brave new territory it’s comforting to know that station meetings are still boring as shit.  Phil was never one for wasting time on things _he_ didn’t consider important - that was the biggest irony of Groundhog Day.  It figured that in the end he was the one who reevaluated Punxsutawney, not the other way around.

When Buster got drunk sometimes he’d go on about how no one took him seriously in town hall meetings and how people undervalue teamwork in public administration.  And Phil gets it, or at least he’s trying to - that it takes a lot more than going through the motions to work with, or even be with people.  Phil’s never put enough effort into it before, never been good at it before Punxsutawney.  (He’s still not _good_ at it, just less awful).  But if he has to listen to five more minutes on new HR procedures, he swears he’s going to blow his-

Jesus, that’s awful, and even the stupid expression brings back memories of deafening noise  (because handguns are _loud_ when they go off right next to you) and nausea.  Fuck it’s really only been a day, and he’s already falling back into the same-

Someone taps him on the shoulder. Phil’s heart catches in his chest.  Rita.  She slips him a handout he’d missed on the cost-benefit analysis of potential station partners.  She winks before returning to her seat.

On the bottom right corner of Page 10 Phil spots a tiny drawing of a groundhog banging its head against the wall.  He nearly spits out his lukewarm conference room water.  (Thankfully something about the cost benefit analysis must have heated up just then, because no one is paying attention.   _Will explain, I promise I haven’t been ignoring you!_ On the next page there’s another groundhog drawing - this one with hearts in its eyes.   _Meet you by the benches after?_

 

* * *

 

“You’re serious...your phone got stolen by a goat?”

Rita is blushing.  “I do know what it sounds like.”

“You know, sometimes the cameramen joke about getting hazard pay when we have to do stories in really bad hail or when the roads suck.  Doing the story on the petting zoo is meant to be on the same danger level as the Merry Go Round.”

February in Pittsburgh means it’s 5:30 and already the sun is setting.  Rita has switched out her usual burgundy coat for something with black fleece.  It’s disconcerting, but Phil can’t blame her for owning other clothes.

"The goat was actually pretty sweet, just overly interested in my iPhone.  But the farmer offered to pay my deductible, _and_ I got my body weight in free cheese, so it ended up being a pretty good deal.  Sorry if you thought I was ignoring you all day.”  She laughs in the way that Phil has learned means she’s trying not to make a big deal, but something is actually bothering her.

“This is the kind of thing that would drive me up a wall if I were in your shoes.”

Phil waves away the notion.  “No, no, I figured something must have come up, it wasn’t a big deal.”  He’s sure Rita can see that he’s lying through his teeth.  The fact that she won’t call him out on it means the world.  “I just hope you really like cheese.  So, we’re off the clock and done talking shop?”

“Yup.”

He grins.  “In that case, what are you doing tonight?

Rita winces.  “Shit, I totally forgot.  I actually have something to do.”  She throws her hands up.  “I swear that’s not an excuse.”  Her panicked expression is pretty adorable.  “My friend is organizing this Swing Dancing 101 thing for this ongoing community dance series she’s trying to get started, and she doesn’t have enough people signed up.  I promised her I would go.”  

“You should, then - you wouldn’t be Rita Hanson if you let your friends down.”

Rita smiles, and Phil can see the moment an idea goes through her head.  “...you don’t want to go with me, do you?”

There was a time when his response would have been an instantaneous _No way in hell._ He doesn’t really know what swing even is (let alone how to do it).  To be honest, he’d probably say yes if Rita suggested they take a spontaneous trip to North Korea.  

Spending time with Rita isn’t all of it, though.  Phil can try to be kinder to people, but he can already see how easy it would be to fall back into old habits.  To not ever do anything new.

“You know...why not.  Carpe diem and all that.  I just apologize in advance for when I step on your toes.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Phil really is shit at swing dancing.  It really doesn’t help that the guy is supposed to be the one leading.  With Women’s Lib and all that you’d think the responsibility would be split more evenly.  There’s a gay couple dancing really well together by the bar.  One of them has to be the “follow” and it’s nice to know at least a few members of the male species are getting off the hook. 

Thankfully, Rita is also really, really bad at this.  Like Phil has to stop her from falling and colliding with another couple bad.  But Rita’s snorting laughter when she looks up at him, and her smile is infectious.

For next song they give up any pretense of swing dancing.  He’s sure they look ridiculous, but he and Rita make the movements work in the beat of the music.  Phil is surprised by the end that he’s actually having a good time.  The gay couple by the bar is giving them an approving look, so maybe they haven’t embarrassed themselves too much.  Maybe.  Rita grinning like the sun and grabbing his hand and pulling him over to introduce him to someone else.  He really doesn’t care what he looks like.

Too soon, the evening starts winding down.  “Thanks for coming along,” Rita says once they’re outside her front door.

“I was surprised, that was actually fun.  Just don’t quit your day job for dancing, okay?”

Rita’s laugh is indignant.  “I could offer you the same advice.”

“Well thank God then we’re both otherwise employed.”

Phil cups her face with one hand and brushes her cheek.  Rita tilts her head, allowing him access to her mouth.  Their lips brush softly once, and then Phil brings them together again.  Rita uses the smallest bit of teeth to bite his lip, and Phil’s suddenly way more into this than he has any right to be when they’re standing _in front of her front door_.

He drops his hand, and internally recites his mantra about not doing too much too fast - Rita is too important to risk.  He has tomorrows now.  “I should really let us both get some sleep - it’s been a long week.”

“Phil,” Rita shakes her head and presses her forehead against his.  “Are you _trying_ to be a gentleman here?”  

Phil smiles impishly.  “Do you want me to be, Rita?”

“I won’t push you if you really just want to get some sleep, but if this is out of some misguided sense of chivalry...”

The look in Phil’s eyes is pure mischief.  “Well in that case, if you _insist_ …”

And that settles that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, I definitely need four parts to finish this thing up.
> 
> Thanks for the comments so far! They are very much appreciated.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at http://matataku-hoshi.tumblr.com/ - come say hi!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for Phil remembering some of his past suicide attempts.

Phil spends the third day with Rita, which inevitably turns into spending the fourth day together (or at least after they switch to spending time at his place after a brief stop for Indian food, because he needs a fresh change of clothes for God’s sake.  Besides, he’s the one with HBO).

Phil wouldn’t think that he could have new relationship energy with someone he has known for decades, at least from one point of view.  Per usual Rita is good at surprising him.  Really, he’s as much a sucker for this feeling as the next guy.  But more than that, he loves learning Rita in all the ways he never could have known in Punxsutawney.  What she’s like when she's giving old friends shit.  How passionate she gets when talking about the things she really, really cares about.  They have conversations, and the next day she  _ remembers _ .  For the first time they have a foundation to build something more.

It’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

Phil tries not to think about it too hard.  It turns out living in the moment is this really ironic mix of appreciating everything and simultaneously not taking himself too seriously.  But occasionally, Rita will doze off on the couch and Phil is hit by the sheer gravity of her.  That after spending forever stuck in the same place, they actually have a chance of making this work.  

He slips up one evening at Rita’s place as they’re debating takeout options.  She keeps the local menus on top of her fridge and Phil finds an old photo on top of the stack.  A much younger Rita has her arms wrapped around a large golden retriever.  Phil’s mouth quirks upwards.  “Is this Stephen?”  

He realizes his mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth - of course Rita has no memory of that conversation, and they've never talked about it in this timeline.

“Er, yes, but out of the gajillion dog names out there how did you guess the name of my childhood...?”

Thank God the top of Rita’s fridge is a graveyard for old family photos.  Phil spots another one of Rita with her arm wrapped around a burly teenager in a cap and gown.

Rita positively guffaws when Phil shows it to her.  “No, that’s Carl, remember?  I can’t wait to tell him you mixed him up with the family dog.  When we were little and I was mad I used to tell him that Stephen - that was our dog -  was better at stuff than he was.  Math, dodgeball, you name it.”

Thankfully Rita gets so caught up in telling him the story of the time she convinced her brothers she could turn into a werewolf that she doesn’t dwell further on Phil’s close call.  It takes a minute before he can listen to what Rita’s saying again.  

When the takeout arrives, Phil’s unable to finish off his pho.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes Phil until Day 17 to call his mother.

 

It’s not that he’s been putting it off - okay, fine, he’s been putting it off.  His mother is insufferable at the best of times.  But Phil remembers all too well the desperation of unobtainable possibilities and he feels ridiculous squandering the chance.

Twenty minutes later, his ears are ringing and he’s exasperated.  This isn’t even about what kind of person he used to be, this is decades worth of rehashed baggage that Mary Connors just can’t let go.  

It’s comforting to know that some things just don’t change.  

Well, at least he crossed that post-February 2nd item off the bucket list.  It’s not that he suddenly needs a better relationship with his mother.  For better or worse he’s gotten through life without one.  

Phil opens the door to the fridge with the intention of grabbing a beer.  He pauses, his hand tracing the plastic of the handle.  He closes the door with a sigh, reaches for his phone, and dials his sister.

Phil’s pretty sure he and Margaret saw each other the Christmas before last.  Or maybe at their aunt’s funeral.  It’s been a while.  It’s not that they ever had a falling out, or that they ever didn’t get along.  They just didn’t have a ton in common these days.  Neither of their parents were easy, and by the time they each mutually escaped to college it was a lot easier to cut their losses than try to salvage anything that was left.  

“Phil?” answers a sleepy, familiar voice on the other end.  “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Phil realizes in the moment that he has no idea  _ what  _ he’s even calling about. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you went to bed so early.”

“Well, you don’t have to teach yoga at 5:00 in the morning.”

He takes a seat at the kitchen table and crosses a leg over his knee.  “Wait, you’re teaching yoga now?”

“For the last three years - you gave me a hard time about it at Thanksgiving, remember?  That it was all hippie shit.”

Phil strums his fingers on the table  .“I'm just saying that...wait, I wasn't at Thanksgiving.  Was I?”

Thankfully Margaret decides to drop it.  “So if no one's died, why did you call?”

In for a penny, in for a pound.  “I called Mom.”

Margaret goes quiet for a beat.  “And…?”

“It went about as expected.”

His sister chuckles ruefully . “Well, I could have told you that.  Still sorry to hear it, though.”

“I know, I know, I just wanted to  _ try _ , you know?”

Margaret lets out a small sigh.  “No, I get it - I do too sometimes, at least on the days when I'm feeling masochistic.”

Phil grins knowingly.  “See, that's why I called, I knew you would understand.”

“Unfortunately yes.  So what's new with you?  You still seeing that lifeguard?”

“Trust me when I say definitely not the lifeguard - that one went down in flames.”  Phil pauses.  “I did meet someone recently, though.  It’s still pretty new, but...”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t laugh, she’s my co-worker at the station-”

(Of course Margaret laughs).  “Go on.”

“One of the producers.  You’d like her.  She’s into all of those really old books you’re obsessed with and is really…”  Phil is utterly failing at the English language.  “Nice.”

Margaret audibly scoffs.  “Nice?  That’s the best you could come up with?”

“Well, I’m not going to talk to my sister about how the girl I’m dating is hot.”

“Yes, please don’t.”

“Seriously, she’s amazing, and really, really funny and just…” Phil searches for the word.  “Bright.  Not bright like in smart, although that too.  It’s like you look at the world through her eyes and everything gets vivid and more colorful.  And yes, she’s also hot.” He’s pretty sure Margaret can  _ hear _ his smirk.

“And yet she has the bad taste to be dating you?” His sister’s voice is teasing and gentle.

“You share 50% of the same DNA with me or something, so it’s not like you’re much better.  So how did you end up with the yoga gig anyway?”

It’s been a long time since he and Margaret really talked about well, anything, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. The microwave clock has just turned to 10:00 when they both reluctantly admit that they really need to get some sleep.  “Hey Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“Mom encounters aside, you’re sounding better than I’ve heard you in ages.  And you’re allowed to call just cause.  It’s good to hear from you.”

Phil knows the truth of the words as they leave his lips.  “You too.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Phil wakes up one morning and realizes he doesn’t know instinctively how many days it’s been.  He checks on the calendar over breakfast.  Thirty six, apparently.

It’s funny how you eventually stop counting days - both when time is repeating and when it’s going at the normal clip.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil decides to take up jogging.   Okay, a big incentive is that Rita often joins him (she used to do cross country in high school and has been meaning to get back into it).  He has to cut back a little after the first week when his knee starts hurting and the the doctor warns him it’s only going to get worse if he doesn’t take it a little easier.  He finds particular reminder of his mortality is annoying.  

Rita laughs and tells him she’s impressed with his dedication.  Anyway, the whole thing is probably a good reminder that he’s only human.  After a week off and the doctor’s grudging approval, Phil’s good to go.

It’s  _ really _ satisfying to feel his body getting stronger, his endurance slowly improving.  And if aches and pains sometimes come with it, he’ll pay that price.

Phil buys a piano.  

On one hand, he’s back to the world of finite money (something he quickly realized via his credit card statement after his initial e-book spree).  On the other hand, Phil’s amazed at some of the stuff he just doesn’t care about any more.  With some perseverance and a recommendation from Mrs. Baker back in Punxsutawney, he’s able to find a used model he likes.  To celebrate, he and Rita order pizza and Phil tries his best to keep up with her 90s pop song requests.  When she tries for “Call Me Maybe”, he throws a pillow at her.

Phil has a few books from the library on European history tossed on the couch.  There’s another one about math theory at the kitchen table. (25 years in Pittsburgh and it took him until now to get a library card.  That’s embarrassing).  One of Rita’s t-shirts hangs off the side of his laundry hamper.

It’s starting to feel a little like home again.

 

* * *

 

About six or seven weeks in, Phil and Rita get dinner from a taco truck and finally have The Talk about what exactly they’re doing.  (Because really, Mexican food makes everything better).

They establish that on the one hand, neither of them were looking for this before Punxsutawney (Phil is relieved this one is the truth).  On the other, it’s getting a little silly to pretend this isn’t more than a drawn-out fling.  Rita’s no longer even asking for her shirts back when she leaves them at his place.  Obviously it’s better for him to just throw them in the laundry so she’ll have a clean one the next time it gets late and they fall asleep on the couch.

Their work situation prevents them from being too public, but Rita does take the “single” status off her Facebook profile.  (Phil’s never had a Facebook, a fact he’s grateful for in his second life).  They continue their policy of being professional “but not weird” at the station.  And if Phil is secretly pleased when they are put on a story together, and if Larry rolls his eyes when their colleagues ask about weekend plans, and if despite his best efforts co-workers occasionally catch Phil looking at Rita like she’s the sun and the moon, well...you can’t fault him for not  _ trying _ .

Phil’s certainly had his share of relationships - even one or two that got serious back in the day.  But let’s be real, the last five years or so (at least of real time) have mostly been extended hookups.  Being with Rita feels like uncharted territory, albeit no more so than anything else in his new life.  Phil does worry at least once a day about how he could fuck things up in this world sans a reset button.  It’s funny, even when he feels like his heart is going to burst through his chest with just the _idea_ of Rita Hanson, he always feels grounded in her company.

There’s a meteor shower slated for 2 in the morning a few weeks later.  You could say that Rita talked Phil into getting up in the middle of the night to see it, but the truth is he’s just as intrigued.

Only Phil’s not that tired.  He’s content to stay up and read, his legs splayed over Rita’s sleeping form.  He responds to a few texts from Fred.  That kid was always a night owl anyway.  Next week is Fred and Debbie’s Wrestlemania date in Pittsburgh and they're supposed to get dinner together. It’s incredible how fast time flies now.

At 1:45, the alarm on Rita’s phone goes off.  She swats it under the pillow.  Phil’s grin is wide as he leans in for the kill.  “Guess what time it is, wood-chuck chuckers?”

“You’re evil, you know that?” Rita mumbles, her eyes still closed.

He brushes his thumb over her temple.  “C’mon, you were the one who wanted to see this.”

“That was stupid Rita talking.  Smart Rita wants to sleep.”

Phil yanks the pillow out from beneath her.  “C’mon.  You’re going to be grumpy tomorrow if you miss this.”

“No I’m not~~~~” Her whining would be pathetic if it wasn’t also adorable.

He strums a few fingers across her arm in a way he knows must tickle.  “Well, in that case do it for me.  I'd probably get lost without you and get eaten by a wild bears.”  He kisses the side of her head and takes a hand.  “C’mon.”

The cool March air feels nice and the sky is clear.  He had predicted so himself earlier that evening, but for Rita’s sake he had checked again.  She really could sleep like the dead and he hated waking her.

They drive about ten minutes to a nearby park.  Phil has to use the flashlight app on his phone to find a clear spot to sit.  They settle down on the ground and Rita wraps her arms around herself.  “It’s cold - can I have your jacket?”

Phil raises an eyebrow.  “As long as you don't care that it’s a cliche.”

“No, I care that I’m cold.”

Phil laughs and passes his jacket to her.  “I’m going to remember this the next time you say chivalry is dumb.”  

Rita swats him with the arm that’s already made it through a sleeve.  “I’ll remember this the next time you’re dumb.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Me neither.”  Rita zips up the jacket and relaxes her back against Phil’s chest.  “It’s okay, I keep you around for your looks.”  

“Writing that one down for the record.” Phil pulls an arm around her side.

“Shush, I think I can see the start of something over there.”

For all the meteorology studies Phil did in college, he's never seen something like this in person.  Used to figure there was no point when he could get a better view on video anyway.  

There’s a streak of light in the western corner of the sky.  It hits Phil all at once that for all he knew the infinity of February 2nd in Punxsutawney, it was such a small corner of space and time.  He and Rita, this park, Pittsburgh, America, this fucking planet is only the tiniest piece of one of those dots up there.

Rita takes his hand and brushes her thumb over his palm.  Her face is engulfed in wonder and Phil swears there’s starlight reflected in her eyes.

“Makes you feel kind of cozy, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm?” Phil asks.

Rita leans back further into him.  “There’s like a gajillion square miles of space out there, and we may or may not be the only living things out there.”

“And that makes you feel cozy?  This kind of thing always makes me think about how insignificant we really are.”  There was a time he would have spoken the words with disdain.  Now it’s a confession, a vulnerability.

“I guess, but...okay, hear me out.  So we’re so insignificant that we’re not even as big as parasite on an ant in the grand scheme of things.  So nothing is important.  But…it’s like, if nothing is important, than everything is.  The grass we’re sitting on, those pigeons over there that won’t shut up, you, me, what we’re doing…”  Phil’s vision has adjusted to the darkness and he’s able to meet her gaze.  “This is the center of my world.  Right now, being here with you.”  She waggles her eyebrows.  “And as it turns out it’s not half bad.”

Phil shakes his head and laughs.  So much for nihilism.  “You may be the most optimistic person I’ve ever met, Rita Hanson.”

She swats him.  “Don’t think I’m Pollyanna, this is all tempered with a good dose of reality.  You know I don’t take shit.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

They sit silently for a few more minutes, until the bursts of light stop and the sky reverts back to its normal form.

They drive back to his place in silence.  Rita is already in bed by the time he brushes his teeth and undresses.

Phil’s finally getting tired, but can’t fall asleep just yet.  Next to him, Rita’s breath has sunk into the steady rhythm of sleep.

“I love you,” Phil whispers.  He rolls over on his side and closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Phil’s problem is he can’t get rid of the sinking feeling that he’s living a lie.  Or at the very least, that he’s presenting Rita with one.  Not about the person he is now - that’s as real as any of what he experienced.  Phil knows what kind of person he used to be, but he also knows who he’s become.  And obviously that’s still far from perfect, but he would like to think he’s made steps in the right direction.  

Unfortunately he has to share a life with past Phil and that leads to some really awkward gaps.  Like why he can’t have Rita meet any old friends.  Phil tried going out with some old drinking buddies about a week ago.  They’re not bad people.  It’s less that he doesn’t want to introduce them to Rita (because she manages to find good in just about everyone), and more that he just doesn’t have that much in common with them anymore.  Rating the girls at Hooters just feels awkward now, and while he still enjoys a drink over dinner, getting completely blasted just brings back too many bad memories.

He’s trying  _ hard _ to be someone worthy of having relationships with people.  Phil would like to think he’s succeeding, at least a little.  He’s gotten to know his other co-workers, including Amy the receptionist (who as it turns out has a wicked sense of humor).  He and Larry have settled into something like friendship.  Phil and Margaret talk about once a week now, and Margaret’s been thinking of making it to Pittsburgh one of these weekends.  He tries to keep an eye out for the interns.

The problem is a few months of trying to be a better person isn’t much of a life to show his new girlfriend.  Phil really does has layers to him, God dammit, it’s just most of them developed over a million February 2nds.  Unfortunately everything before that was so...hollow.

This all would be easier if Rita was the kind of girl who just wanted to screw and talk about sports teams.  They certainly engage in both (moreso Rita than Phil - turns out she has strong feelings about the Penguins), but Rita isn’t the type to leave things superficial.  These days Phil isn’t either.

It’s stressful to constantly check the consistency of his stories.  When he learned to play the piano.  Why he can speak French, even if Phil’s accent is atrocious by Rita’s standards, and why he’s so good at trivia.  Phil can do those lies.  He prefers not to dwell on his fictions too long (because they still are lies, even if they’re for a good cause), but it’s easy enough.  

The problem is that most of the things Phil wants to share with her happened over either the course of a day or a lifetime, depending on your point of view.  And he does want to share with her - badly.

Rita’s opening up to him more and more these days.  Telling him about how she’s terrified her mother’s Alzheimer’s is going to get worse and how she wakes up some days and wonders if she’s sold out on her dreams with this whole producer thing.

When they talk about the events that have defined them over Netflix and takeout, Phil wants to tell her that he went to hell and came back a better man.  Instead, he sticks to some vagaries about challenging times.  Rita presses him (because she’s so good and she  _ cares _ ).  Phil instead changes the subject.  He’s sure Rita must notice.

The worst are the nights when he dreams about endless rows of doors that all open on the best room at Mrs. Lancaster’s bed and breakfast.  Or the moment right before he jumps from the ladder with the makeshift noose around his neck.  You wouldn’t think you could  _ hear _ the sound of your own neck breaking, but in his nightmares the sound is deafening.  They don’t happen very often, thank God, but more than once he wakes up in a cold sweat.  

One night Rita catches him mumbling anxiously in his sleep and clutching the bedsheets so hard the knuckles on his right hand have turned white.  “Jesus, Phil, are you alright?”

He’s learned to be kinder, but Phil’s never been great about sharing these kinds of things with people.  “Just a bad dream.  Go back to sleep.”

Rita is giving him A Look, but he’s too tired to have this conversation right now and turns over on his side.  Rita lets out a small sigh, but trails her hands over his back in a rubbing motion that centers him back in his body.  Phil counts the seconds between breaths, and slowly his heart rate goes back down.  

The problem is he doesn't know how long he can keep this all up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to try to wrap this up before 9/17 (Broadway closing night), but no guarantees. Comments and constructive criticism appreciated!
> 
> ETA: Aaagh, I think I need at least two more parts, dammit. Plus I'm trying to participate in Groundhog Day Fan Week, so I may not finish this until after the 17th, but I promise I'm actively working on it!


	4. Chapter 4

Before February 2nd, Phil couldn’t stand any of that “Every day is a gift - that’s why it’s called the present!” crap plastered on inspirational posters everywhere. So cloying.  No, every day definitely was _not_ a gift.  Sometimes people were just morons and you were stuck dealing with them.  Or so he would have said.

Truth be told, Phil still finds the messaging irritating, but for the opposite reason.  It makes it sound so _easy._ It took time standing still for Phil to even begin to get the hang of it.

Life creeps on at its normal pace.  That’s probably for the better - he has Rita now, after all, a fact that still brings a giddy, disbelieving smile to his lips.  He has something approaching friendships with other people.  He’s _okay_ , and he’s known the opposite well enough to be grateful.

What terrifies Phil is the entropy.  He’s just waiting until it all goes to hell.

He’s losing patience more and more over all the dumb little things he swore he was done with.  Traffic.  People taking too long at the supermarket checkout line.  Phil swears Trader Joe’s is its own unique brand of hell on a Sunday night.  Objectively Phil knows Larry won’t be mad if he arrives late because it’s taking forever to pick up the wine.  But Phil’s animal brain is ready to punch the next person who finishes paying and suddenly has the deep spiritual realization that they really do need that second carton of eggs.  Phil grits his teeth and smiles, because whatever is left of his better self is frantically sending up smoke signals to remind him that it’s not the fault of this college kid that management only has one checkout lane open.

Phil compensates by performing small kindnesses where he can.  Reminding himself not only to say thank you, but to mean it.  Tipping waiters a little more.  Bringing Rita her favorite candy from Seven Eleven.  Picking up coffee for his co-workers.  Sending Mrs. Baker rare a book of sheet music.

His bank account balance is not looking pretty these days.

When Phil spots the bum who has taken up residence near the coffee shop, he lets out a sigh and stops.  He takes out the contents of his wallet and passes it to the man.  “Sorry there’s not more.  Credit card based society is turning everything to shit.”

Some smarmy looking hipster kid is shaking his head and looking at them both with disapproval.  “You know he’s just going to use it for drugs, right?”

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Phil mutters under his breath as he continues on his way.

The bum just laughs.

* * *

 

Phil is shaving one morning when he notices a few grey hairs.  It’s nothing new, of course - he’s been pulling them out since his late thirties.  But these are the first to sprout since February 2nd.

It occurs to him that in a few months he’ll have a birthday.

 

* * *

 

 

It's a Thursday when Phil goes out for drinks with Martin from Senior Management for the first time since Punxsutawney.  It's funny, he and Martin did this all the time and Phil can't remember for the life of him what they used to talk about.

Phil tries to ask him about his wife, his kids.  Whatever the subjects of conversation before, apparently that wasn’t it, because Martin just doesn’t have much to say on the topic.  So instead they talk about how bad the Steelers are this year and the crap they’ve wasted money on and the awful, weird shit you can find on the internet.  (When Phil points out that can’t be real because lizards have internal reproductive organs, Martin doesn’t seem to register that he said anything).  It’s not like Phil is suddenly above just shooting the shit now and then but he can’t get past the sinking feeling that he’s not going to get to anything behind it here.  Phil can't blame Martin or anyone else but himself for the way he was before Groundhog Day.  It occurs to him for the first time that the standards weren't exactly set high.

“So I talked to Dave at the affiliate station,” Martin says finally.

“Yeah?” Phil asks.  He's starting his next beer and is slowly creeping past pleasantly tipsy and into buzzed with a 50% chance of turning moody.

“He knows a guy at The Weather Channel who might be looking for someone to do correspondent work in the greater midwest.  Couldn’t tell you where and it would probably mean moving every year for a while.  But you know how it goes - you get in the right place at the right time.  It’s not like Al Roker started on the Today Show.”

Phil takes another swig of his beer and considers the idea.  "Huh.”  The truth is he’s barely gotten used to being back in Pittsburgh.  Not like it’s perfect, of course.  Phil used to say that he’d been plotting to leave Pittsburgh ever since he arrived as a fresh faced college intern, but that analogy went sour a long, _long_ time ago.  (The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how much most of his complaints about Pittsburgh originate from the feud between the Browns and the Steelers).  Of course the actual city is less important than the things he’s starting to build here.  What he has with Rita is delicate and still growing.  The same can be said for anything of value he’s carefully nurtured over the last several months.  But it’s his, goddammit.

“And…I’m just saying, we could all go out sometime for drinks or something.  Phil, are you paying attention?”

Phil realizes he’s been staring at the TV monitor.  Whatever team is playing against the Pirates just scored a double and the bases are _still_ loaded.  Phil tips his glass in solidarity with the angst-ridden fan a few seats down.  No one deserves this, even if they're rooting for the worst team in baseball.

“What?  No, uh, yeah, it would be great to meet him.”

Martin shakes his head.  “I don’t know what’s been up with you lately.”

“Come again?”

“You’ve been bitching and moaning for years about how much you hate this place and what you would do to get out.” (He’s not wrong there).  Martin puts down his glass.  “And I get it, I really do.  But I put up with it because you were always so driven, and you did damn good work.”

Phil wants to get this over with.  “And now…?”

Martin gives a dismissive shrug.  “Look, you’re fine, your ratings are great, but you go off on these weird tangents about Flipponachi-”

“Fibonacci,” Phil corrects automatically under his breath.

“-Numbers and you’re making ten-step program monologues part of the forecast and bending over backwards to be nice to the janitors, and...I mean, did you join a cult or something?”

“Oh, I did,” Phil replies with perfect candor.  “But even L. Ron Hubbard couldn’t stop my little problem with the space time continuum.”

“Look, it's your business if helping little old ladies with their groceries or learning Latin is suddenly your thing.  Seriously, good for you, we all get through our 40s in our own way.  I'm just surprised you're not jumping at this one.”

Phil tries to picture making it big somewhere.  Getting a spot on something like The Weather Channel or getting into one of the major city markets.  He’s recently come to the surprising conclusion that he likes his job most of the time.  But he also likes going home at the end of the day, either to Rita or to a Tchaikovsky concerto or just checking out parts of the neighborhood he never bothered with before.  When he imagines exchanging it all for a pay raise, well...it’s not like he wouldn’t appreciate having more cash, but the tradeoff leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

In the end, Phil tells Martin he'll meet the guy, if just so he can get to the end of this conversation.

It occurs to Phil before he falls asleep later that night that he’s not sure which is the fake Phil Connors - the long-dead misanthrope, or the current version who thinks he’s better. 

* * *

 

 

 The second inquiry into Phil’s wintertime change of heart comes a few weeks later while he and Rita are watching TV at her place.

The truth is that Phil never watched Channel 5 News much before Punxsutawney.  It was too easy to get caught up in whatever he had screwed up or been irritated by that day.  Plus it wasn’t like he gave a second thought to what any of his co-workers were doing.

Phil still feels self-conscious watching himself on TV.  To be honest, he’s always felt there’s something ridiculous about standing in front of a blue screen and acting like all of those color-coded blobs are real.  Regardless, thanks to Rita Phil’s been watching more of Channel 5 news these days.  He still thinks he looks like an idiot half the time, but it’s nice to see Rita’s segments and his co-worker’s projects.

“And now, from Channel 5 Pittsburgh, we present the wildest weather stories of the season!”

Rita clasps her hands together in excitement.  Phil groans and covers his face with a pillow.  “You promised me they were going to end with a really trashy story about celebrity hookups.”

“They were supposed to!  Something must have come up at the last minute, you know how it goes.”

“Can’t we watch Sex and the City reruns or infomercials or literally anything else?”

“Nope, I really wanna see this.”  Rita squeezes Phil’s hand.  “You need to stop being so self-conscious.  Wanna know a secret?”

“Sure.”

Her eyes twinkle.  “It’s kind of hot when you do that pointing at the TV thing.”

For once this is actually not about his ego, but the gesture earns a laugh and Phil squeezes Rita’s hand back.  He’s survived a lot worse than montages of the patented Phil Connors Head Turn.

“Number three,” a voice announces.  Larry.  How the hell did they end up with a cameraman doing voiceover work?  This segment seriously must have been thrown together at the last minute.  “‘Local’ apples - where do they _really_ come from?”  Cut a montage of Phil sizing up some poor local farmer and eating his body weight in complimentary fruit.  There’s a split second of his onscreen self grimacing mid-bite and Phil has to choke back a laugh.

Rita turns to him.  “Okay, you got any insider scoop on that one?”

Phil snickers at the memory.  “Let’s just say that Farmer O’Donnell was _not_ happy with me at that point.”

“So what, he gave you a crabapple?”

Phil shakes his head and leans further back on the couch.  “We just finished dinner, I’ll save you that story for another time.”

“Number two,” Larry’s disembodied voice continues ominously.  Phil makes a mental note to give Larry shit tomorrow, or at least challenge him to a voiceover-off.  

“It’s Labor Day Weekend,” Onscreen Phil tells the camera.  “Which begs the question, why the hell am I here?” He gives a beaming smile even as the words drip with irritation.  He lets out a good-natured laugh, completely fake.  “Anyway, we’ve got a ten percent chance of rain and a hundred percent chance of ‘I don’t give a damn about your plans for Labor Day Weekend’, so don’t even bother trying to tell me.”  Phil knows in his gut that he’d feel a lot better right now his TV self wasn’t saying it all with such sincerity.  “This has been Phil Connors, and that’s good weather.”

Rita raises an eyebrow.  “So what exactly crawled up your ass Labor Day weekend?”

“I, uh, was supposed to have it in my contract that I got national holidays off in addition to weekends,” He can’t meet her eyes.  They both know it’s a shitty excuse.  “Due to a technical error Labor Day weekend didn’t end up on that list and I got stuck coming in.  Do you want to maybe start heading-”

He’s cut off by Movie Trailer Narrator Larry.  “And finally, number one-”

Rita shrieks with surprised laughter and claps her hands together as the screen switches to a torrential downpour.  Phil makes a valiant to disappear into the couch.

“I’m Phil Connors, reporting live from not-so-sunny Butler, Pennsylvania.  Wow, it’s raining cats and dogs and probably a few of your kids’ goldfish too.  Hope you guys weren’t too attached to Nemo because he is loooong gone.”

The camera is jerked to the side by a gust of wind.  Plastic bags and other debris fly down the road.  Of course the mic still picks up his voice.  “For Christ’s sake Larry, where the hell do you think the camera is supposed to go?  Hey, Roseanne, can I get an umbrella here or are you trying to make sure I die of hypothermia?  I swear to God this is the last time I-”

Phil decisively hits the mute button.  He drops his head into his palm and exhales.  “I don’t know if I’ve ever explicitly apologized to you for all of that, but I am so, so, sorry.  I had no excuse for being that much of an asshole.”

“You have, but I appreciate it,” Rita puts a hand on his knee.  “Sorry, I guess I should have taken your cue when you said you didn’t want to watch.”  She scooches closer on the couch and leans her weight into him.  Phil adjusts his arm so that its splayed over Rita’s stomach.  He’s ashamed to say that these last few months he’s gotten _used_ to being with Rita like this, as if it’s not a goddamn miracle of the cosmos that they’re here, miles away in space and time from Punxsutawney.  Day after day he has the chance to at least try to be someone new.  Phil’s positive he’s fucking it up most of the time, but he appreciates the universe’s gesture of giving him a shot at all.

“It’s just sometimes I don’t get it.”

Phil’s brain keeps going back to whether he actually made any children cry with that line about the goldfish.  “Hmm?”

“I know you keep saying that you hardly remember that day, but I do.”  Rita laughs at some long-forgotten memory.  “Like, if you asked me after that story, I would have told you there was no way in hell I could imagine us ending up like this.” Fingers ghost along his cheekbone and he turns to meet her gaze.  “And don’t let it go to your head, but I like this.”  

Phil lets their foreheads drop together.  He’s positive that he doesn’t deserve Rita Hanson, but he promises himself that there’s no way in hell he will ever take any of this for granted, mundanities of daily life be damned.  “I do too,” he says softly.

But Rita hasn’t let go of her previous train of thought.  “I think back to that day, and it’s like you’re a completely different person now.  Like...not pod person level different, but _something_ happened.”  

The breeze stirs by the window.  And I wish you’d _tell_ me hangs unspoken in the air.

Instead, Phil kisses Rita gently and tells her it’s late and that he really has to start heading home. 

* * *

 

 

It's a few weeks later and 1:30 in the morning when Phil’s phone goes off.  He’s is about to tell whatever telemarketer is on the other end where they can shove it when he sees the name.  Rita.  Phil smirks and turns on the light.  The texts they exchanged a few hours earlier were definitely not safe for work, and he certainly doesn't mind being woken up if Rita is looking for some late night company. “You get lonely without me?” There’s just silence on the other end for a long moment.  “Rita?”

“It’s my mom,” the words come out in a rush.  “She had a fall when she was outside, she was out there for _hours_ and no one knew, and she’s in the hospital, and they're saying something about how her body is in shock, but my brother won’t actually answer my fucking texts to confirm which doesn’t help because the paramedics are _idiots_ and didn’t bother to check for other medical conditions, and-”  Rita’s voice breaks off someplace between rage and despair and Phil feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

Phil knows he’s supposed to do something right now.  This is when he’s supposed to be the guy Rita's been describing to her friends when she thinks he’s out of earshot.  Phil has no fucking idea what to do.  It’s not like he has much history with being functional in family situations, regardless of whether the scenario is a crisis or just getting through dinner without killing each other.  But this isn’t about Phil Connors right now, and even he knows that, dammit.  So instead he takes a breath. “I’ll be right over.”

* * *

 

 

This is not how Phil thought he would meet Rita’s family.  Maybe a sweetly awkward dinner or the eventual Thanksgiving.  Not at five thirty in the morning in an intensive care unit three hours outside of Pittsburgh.  

Phil has never liked hospitals - too sterile, too noisy.  He always feels thirty minutes away from suffocating.  No amount of cheery paint or fake flowers can change that.

He’s positive the number of Hansons in the room multiplies every time he blinks.  Siblings (he recognizes Carl), aunts and uncles, cousins, second cousins.  Phil’s not sure he’s seen this much family in his life, let alone willingly choosing to be in a room together.  He makes hasty, awkward introductions to Rita's dad, an older guy who looks like he could have played football back in the day.  Mr. Hanson thanks him quickly but sincerely for driving Rita before excusing himself to talk to a nurse.  Phil supposes that's a win (or at least not a disaster).

He’s exhausted.  Rita was in no shape to drive to Columbus so of course Phil was behind the wheel.  That doesn’t change the fact it’s seven in the morning, he’s running on about four hours of sleep, and that Columbus General makes the DMV look like a well-oiled machine of efficiency and friendliness by comparison.

Phil quickly learns that Rita can not only Associate Produce the weather, but also family crises and hospitals.  But he knows Rita well enough to realize she feels better when she feels like she’s doing _something_ , so he helps her take notes on her mom’s blood pressure readings and cross-reference lists of family medical histories.  Phil doesn’t have the heart to point out that she’s mixing up cold shock response and circulatory shock.

While Rita is running in circles trying to figure out which nurse is assigned to her mom post-shift change, Phil volunteers for the awkward task of calling work.  He’s pretty sure most of the station has figured out by now that they’re dating, but he’s tried very hard to leave a plausible benefit of the doubt for HR’s sake.  Phil briefly considers fabricating something.  He could ask Rita to call in with personal emergency and he’d call in sick exactly 30 minutes later.  After all, they’ve pretty much perfected the art of coming into work within 10-15 minutes of the other.  But Rita looks like she’s going to either burst into tears or wring this receptionist’s neck, and even Phil’s not selfish enough to add one more complication to this disaster of a morning.

He gets through to Amy at the office on the first ring.  Lays it out how Rita won’t be at work today due to a family emergency, and oh yeah, he _also_ won’t be at work today because he’s with her in Columbus.  Amy, thank God, is just as no-nonsense and practical as ever.  She stops him before hanging up.  “Phil?”  (She used to always call him Mr. Connors.  He likes it better this way).

“Yeah?”

“There was a time when I would have threatened to kick your ass for leading on Rita Hanson, who is seriously one of the nicest people to ever work at Channel 5.”

“And?”

“Well, I’ll _still_ kick your ass if you break her heart.”

Phil smiles despite himself.  “I’m counting on you for that.”

“I mean it.”  She pauses.  “Give her a hug for me, Phil.”

Time passes.   Phil spends about 10 minutes waiting outside to direct one of the Hanson cousins when he realizes he’s standing at the wrong entrance (a fact he’s alerted to by the arrival of a cross-armed and very unamused Rita).  The florescent light of the waiting room hums and buzzes.  The toddler wailing nearby is doing a good job of expressing how they’re all feeling.  The doctors still don’t know anything other than that Mrs. Hanson is stable for now.  Rita's oldest brother silently offers Phil a sandwich, and he doesn’t even have it in him to be annoyed about the olives.

Phil doesn’t realize he’s dozed off until he wakes with a crick in his back to the sounds of raised voices.  

“Ms. Hanson, I need you to calm down,” a distraught orderly is telling Rita.

“I will calm down when you tell me what the _hell_ is in that medication you just gave my mother.”

Phil rapidly gets to his feet.  “What’s going on here?”

“I told your friend here that what we gave her mother is standard procedure, and I can’t tell you what exactly-”

“Seriously?” Phil cuts in.  “You have, what, millions of dollars of investment in electronic medical records and you can’t figure out what chemicals you just injected into a 75 year old woman in critical condition?”

“That information is-”

“Located on a computer that someone has to have access to?” Phil looks him straight in the eye.  “Look, I’ve seen more iPads than people working here.  Are you all using them for Pokemon Go or does anyone actually collect this information?”

The orderly scowls.  “I’ll see what I can find out.”  His Keds squeak against the floor and the sound hurts Phil’s ears.

Rita places a palm to her forehead in exasperation.  “Well congratulations Phil, glad to know that you have saved the day yet again.  I hope you feel appropriately macho.”

“I’d like to think it was more my local celebrity powers,” Phil tries.  Rita’s having none of it.  “Look, I was trying to help.”

“I know you were, but I was handling it on my own.”

If the buzzing of the fluorescent light gets any louder, Phil’s sure security alarms are going to go off.  He puts a hand on her shoulder.  “C’mon, let’s go for a walk.”

Rita snaps her arm away.  She shakes her head in quickly mounting irritation.  “Right, make let’s sure the angry black chick doesn’t bother anyone when her mother’s dying.”

“Rita, for God’s sake, we don’t _know_ anything yet.  Look I’m not saying that guy wasn’t an asshole or this isn’t stressful-”

She meets his gaze and aims straight at him.  “Stressful?  That’s the best you can come up with?”

“You’re not helping anyone right now.” Phil forces the next words out even as they feel like machine gun fire.  “Least of all yourself.”  He stops, makes himself inhale and exhale.  His voice goes quiet.  “What can I do, Rita?  I’ll murder that guy with his own scalpel if it’ll make you feel better.”  He pauses.  “Unless you think that’s too sausage fest and Patrick Bateman.”

That gets a small, startled laugh out of her.  “Nah, go right ahead.”  

Rita takes a slow, deep breath and Phil seizes his opportunity.  “How about this.  You delegate kicking the crap out of that orderly to one of your aunts, and we find something appropriately disgusting at the T.G.I. Friday’s down the street.”

Rita raises an eyebrow.  “You hate Friday’s.”

Phil places a hand to his chest. “Then you should at least know that I care.”

“You’re on.”

* * *

 

 

Phil decides he doesn’t actually hate T.G.I. Friday’s, obnoxious red and white color scheme aside.  He’ll say this - their onion rings are appropriately greasy, as are the mozzarella sticks, fried mushrooms, and potato skins.  Not really stuff he wants to eat every day, but in the spirit of keeping an open mind these days he’s come to the conclusion that there’s a certain appeal in feeling your arteries harden.  Besides, this Friday’s has a _patio_.  It’s not until they’re out of the hospital that Phil realizes how desperate he is for sunlight and fresh air.  

“I, um, do appreciate you driving,” Rita says as she fidgets with the ketchup bottle.  “And for being here, and for picking up the phone.”

If Phil replies with ‘Of course’ or ‘How could I not?’ it’ll just sound hollow.  Instead he offers, “Can I confess something?”

Rita shrugs.  “You might as well.”

Phil laughs nervously.  “I was hoping you were looking for a booty call when you rang.”  He’s convinced as soon as the words leave his mouth that he’s completely blown it here, but Rita just half-heartedly throws a salt packet at him.  It bounces off his shirt and lands in the plastic cheese of the potato skins.  

“Trust me when I say I’m really, really gross right now.”

Phil’s eyes gleam with gentle mischief.  “Doesn’t matter.”

Rita squarely meets his gaze.  “Right here?  In front of Bobby’s birthday party over there?”  (It occurs to Phil that T.G.I. Friday’s wouldn’t even be the weirdest place.  He’s sincerely into trying new things these days, but there are memories he’s perfectly happy to have left behind in Punxsutawney).

“I, uh, guess it would be a health code problem.”

Outside there’s a guy holding a sign for some cell phone company, only he’s gotten bored and has started using it as an air guitar prop.  “Was it like this with your dad?”

Phil looks up. “Hmm?”

“You said your dad’s no longer alive.”

“Oh, right.  Uh, no, that was quick.  Car accident, probably was driving while smashed out of his mind, but we never actually knew for sure.”

“Jesus, Phil, I’m so sorr-”

Phil cuts her off with a wave of his hand.  “Don’t be, the guy was seriously an asshole.”   

Rita reaches a hand across the table and Phil smirks.  He doesn’t need this.  Any wounds from his dad or his death were cauterized a long time ago.  That doesn’t change how Rita’s hand is warm against his own.

The corners of his mouth quirk up.  “You got any good stories about your mom?”

Rita looks at the ceiling as she searches.  “Uh...well, there was a time when she tried to keep a wild hedgehog from our garden as a pet.”

“Did it work out for the hedgehog?”

“In that eventually wildlife control released him back into the forest?  Yes.“  Rita’s gaze is distant.

“Sounds like good family bonding time at least,”

Rita rolls her eyes.  “Not really.  The truth is I spent a lot of time being really shitty to my mom when I was younger,”

“C’mon, what’s the worst you could have done?”

Rita is unamused by the challenge.  “I got brought home in a police car more than a few times.  Lots of yelling and screaming until my throat was hoarse.  I can’t begin to tell you how many times I told my mom I hated her.”

“Sounds like you were a teenager to me,” Phil says, not unkindly.

Rita scoffs.  She has that crease in her nose that he has sadly learned can also make an appearance when she’s upset.  “I mean, yes, I was, but at the time I _really_ meant it,” She takes a long gulp of water.  “I spent a lot of time as a teenager really pissed off and fucked up.  And for all my mom is a force of nature, I know the things I said and did hurt her,”

“Rita, that just makes you-”

She’s not done.  “I put on a pretty good show of having it together these days, but I promise you it’s built on years and years of faking it until I could pass as a functional human being.”

Phil’s not surprised that Rita had her own longest journey to the person she is now.  But going down this part of memory lane isn't going to make her feel any better.  “What changed?”

Rita licks her lips.  “I grew up, I guess.  Realized that she was trying to love me in her own way, and that it wasn’t bad.  She got okay with the idea that I was never going to be her.  And once we got to that point it was like we could actually appreciate and even like each other as people,”

“That sounds pretty good to me.”

“I guess.  This whole early Alzheimer’s thing has sucked, but she was still my mom, even if she was forgetting details.  You know, you take time for granted and suddenly you realize there were all these things you wanted to say and-”

He puts up a hand.  “You need to stop talking like this is a done deal.”  For better or worse he’s going in for a penny, in for a pound.  “I’m not going to tell you what to feel or that it’s not bad right now, but we still don’t know what’s going to happen.”  Phil’s eyes soften.  “It’s going to be okay.”

Rita snorts.  “You _really_ don’t know that.”

One thing is for sure: She’s been smarter than him from day one.  “I don’t.  But, I will use all of my weatherman powers to tell a convincing lie if it’ll help.”

“I love you.”

Just like that night on Gobbler’s Nob when Rita stole away his breath with a kiss, Phil finds the wind knocked out of him.  “Rita, I...”

Am pretty sure you saved me, and not just from February 2nd.

Love you too, and have for a very, very for time.  

Don’t think you know what you’re getting into when you say that, because I was really shitty at this even before took a hiatus from being human.  

Phil is still figuring out the end of that sentence when Rita’s cell phone goes off like an air raid siren.  She snaps the phone to her ear.  “Hello?  Oh - I’ll be right over.” 

* * *

 

 

Phil’s heart nearly gives out in relief.  More tears are shed by the time the morning is through, but the happy ones are just so much easier to handle, even for someone as emotionally dumb as himself.   Rita’s dad goes as far as to give Phil a hug when they get the news that Mrs. Hanson should be going home in a few days.  It’s a good thing the rest of the Hanson are distracted, because Phil is left stupefied.  He can't remember the last time either of his parents willingly touched him.

Of course with the sudden increase in activity, Phil barely has a moment to speak to Rita, let a moment alone with her.  Finally he runs out of excuses to stick around.  Rita gives him a fierce hug before he leaves but says nothing about the thought still blaring through his mind like a fire alarm.

Phil never thought he would say it, but in a lot of ways things were so much easier back on February 2nd.  There was nothing to gain, but there was also nothing to lose.  And for all that the loneliness was soul crushing, it was reassuring to know the only person he could disappoint on a _permanent_ basis was himself.

By the time Phil gets back to Pittsburgh, he’s too exhausted to think, let alone make sense of what Rita said.  He sends a quick text to let her that he’s home safe.  He types his next words into the phone but doesn’t press send - Rita’s likely asleep by now anyway.  Phil passes out soon after.

Several hours later, Phil sits bolt upright in bed.  There’s an unnamed terror on the tip of his lips that he can’t remember.  His heart is pounding.

He deletes the message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a *huge* thank you to ventrie for giving me feedback along the way, and for making sure that neither Phil or Rita lost their edge.
> 
> This is apparently the story that will not end. I feel like a broken record saying this, but I need at least two more parts to finish, and probably an epilogue as well. 
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, especially as I realize how I'm quickly approaching a novella's worth of Groundhog Day fanfiction ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Trigger warning for memories of suicidality and past suicide attempts.

_Day unknown of forever:_

_“Change, Mister?” the homeless man asks._

_Phil shakes his head.  He’s long past the time when flipping the man off was fun, or even the smallest bit satisfying.  It doesn’t matter if he buys the bum a Cadillac or murders him in his sleep, nothing matters.  At least Phil knows who he is.  It’s heartening to know that when he’s chiseled down to his core, at least he’s neither a sap nor a mass murderer._

_Forget about change.  Phil’s fate was set in stone a long time ago.  Or at least on February 1st.  If he has been sentenced to eternal damnation or whatever else his mother was always going on about, he doesn’t understand why instead of burning it’s so goddamn cold._

_Phil wonders for the umpteenth time if he’s already dead.  Not in the sense that he’s already tried and failed at his latest scheme to shuffle off this endless coil.  No, Phil wonders if that first time, when he took Punxsutawney Phil with him, he really did die.  Or maybe he died of a stroke in his sleep the evening of February 1st and all of this is retribution for every unkind thing he’s ever done.  Phil knows he’s mean and a less than stellar human being, but even that shouldn’t be enough to deserve this._

_He misses the sun.  He misses stupid things like coffee and Chinese food.  He misses a time when eating his body weight in donuts or having sex with any woman he wanted could fill the void.  Phil doesn’t know any more if this emptiness is new or if it’s always been a part of him.  Maybe there was nothing before February 2nd and his memories are just another cruel trick of the universe._

_The shock of electricity screeching through water before everything goes black.  The speed of the truck coming straight at him._

_It’s freezing in Punxsutawney, and nothing can change that._

_All Phil knows is that this is hell._

 

* * *

It takes about a week for Rita to get back to Pittsburgh.  True to the doctors’ word, Mrs. Hanson is able to go home a few days later.  Rita sticks around Columbus to help out her dad.  When they talk by phone, Rita tells Phil about smuggling “the good stuff” into Columbus General (since the cafeteria is utter crap) and Phil updates her about who is winning the office’s Fantasy Football pool.  He tells her how good it is to hear her voice, and that making fun of bad 90s sitcom reruns isn’t as fun without her.  

They’re hundreds of miles away from each other.  Phil swears the space between them feels even farther in the pause before they make their goodbyes on the phone.

When Rita finally gets back into town she embraces him fiercely.  Phil breathes in her scent and promises himself to never again take her presence for granted.  They sleep in late and have (if he can say so himself) _really_ good “I haven’t seen you in a week” sex.  

It occurs to Phil that things don’t actually get much better than Rita Hanson lying next to him and lazily playing with his hair.  Phil runs his index finger over Rita’s cheek and she meets his gaze.  There’s a question, a vulnerability in her eyes.

He doesn't say anything.

Phil has never loved anything or anyone more in his life than Rita Hanson.  He doesn’t know _why_ he can’t tell her this.  (Phil figures it’s proof that he’s just as dumb as the person he thought he left behind on February 1st).

Rita eventually doses off.  Phil spends an hour trying to make sense of the patterns in the ceiling.  He gets stuck on the idea that the amount of time he’s spent outside of Groundhog Day to date may be less than the total amount of time he spent learning in Punxsutawney teaching himself how to toss cards.

He’s unable to fall back asleep for a while after that.

When Rita groggily wakes an hour later, the weather has turned overcast and it’s time for them both to get going with the daily slog of life.

 

* * *

 

_Day unknown of ?:_

_If you had told Phil before he came to Punxsutawney that wandering around with his new associate producer and hanging out with hicks would be his idea of a good day, he would have laughed.  Hard.  But yesterday he jumped off of a clock tower, and this feels pretty good in comparison._

_He knows that’s not being fair.  This is actually...nice.  He had forgotten what nice feels like._

_“A Tilt-a-Whirl?  Really?”_

_Phil will never admit it to Rita, but of course he’s been on the Tilt-a-Whirl.  Because seriously, trying out the cheap carnival rides came before courting the 84 year-olds, thank you very much.  But this is new.  New feels not awful.  New feels_ good.

_He’s seen Rita when she’s focused.  Seen her when she’s upset.  Tricked every single piece of trivia he could out of her.  He knows everything about everyone around here, after all._

_This stupid ride is as sophisticated as a barn full of drunks.  You wouldn’t be able to tell from the expression of pure wonder on Rita’s face._

_Phil knows he's staring and he can't look away.  It’s just that he’s never seen Rita as_ alive _as in this moment.  It occurs to Phil for the first time that maybe he doesn’t actually know everything about Rita Hanson._

_If he really is a god and this is his dominion, then maybe it’s a little bigger than he thought._

_Maybe there’s something more here._

_It will always be overcast, but for the first time since he came here Phil is able to recall the warmth of sunlight on his skin._

 

* * *

 

“Is this milk still good?” Rita asks a few weeks later.

“I wouldn’t know,” Phil replies, not looking up from his half-completed crossword puzzle on the table.  He can’t figure out why he used to think these things were just for little old ladies.  Cause if they are, then those old women are _tough_ motherfuckers.  He should really know better than to start the New York Times daily before his second cup of coffee.  “Did you check the date?”

“Yeah, it says not until the day after tomorrow.  But it smells funny.”

Five letter word for a wicker basket used by anglers to hold fish, second letter R.  He _knows_ this, it’s on the tip of his tongue.  “I have a strict personal policy of not consuming anything that smells funny.”

“Almond milk it is then.”  Rita looks over at his crossword.  “Oh, it's creel.”

“No it's…” Dammit, of course she's right.  Rita's smirking when he looks up.  Phil shakes his head in mock ill-humor.  “I still can’t believe I’ve gotten to a point in life where there’s almond milk in my house,” Phil scoffs.  “That shit’s disgusting.”

Rita comes up behind him and leans down so that her elbows are pressed against his shoulders.  She’s co-opted one of his running shirts.  Phil does not get how something that makes him look middle-aged and sweaty can make Rita look like _that_. “Price of admission, Phil.  Take it or leave it.”

He laughs.  “Price of admission?  Last I checked I owned this place.”  Rita just strums her fingers over his shoulder - he doesn’t have a chance in hell of winning this argument and they both know it.  A smile curves onto Phil’s lips.  “Fine, you can keep your almond milk.”

“Smart answer.”  Rita’s eyes are positively gleaming in the morning light coming in from the window.  His running shirt barely goes below her hips.  With the way it clings to Rita’s curves, he seriously has really hard time believing it’s the same piece of clothing.

Phil wants to wrap an arm around the back of Rita’s head and bring her mouth to his own.  He wants to push her up against the goddamn kitchen wall and make her moan his name.  He wants to slowly ghost his fingers along her arms (the way that half-touching can drive them both crazy) until they’re each caught between saying uncle or bursting into laughter.  He wants to spirit them both away from this mortal world, to someplace where they’d never have to live outside of this moment.

I love you.

It all passes before he can act.

“Hey, did you still want to go to that documentary on Saturday?  My friend wants to know if we want these tickets.”

Saturday.  “Shit, I think I actually already have plans.”

“Should I be jealous?” Rita grins.

“Well, on one hand it’s with another woman, but on the other it’s my sister.”

Rita puts down the milk with a definitive thud.  “Seriously?  Phil, why didn’t you tell me?  I’ll tell Anne that I just can’t make it, I’d love to meet your sister.”

Phil scratches the back of his head.  This could get complicated, and quickly.  He can keep a consistent set of stories with Rita, but bring in Margaret and all bets are off.  “You shouldn’t cancel your plans, it’s really more of a family obligation thing.”

“No, you hardly ever talk about your family, except occasionally that you’re on the phone with your sister,” She pauses, looking less confident than before.  “I mean, unless I’d actually be intruding.”  

(Phil can’t bare the expression on her face).  He reminds himself that this is what normal people _do_.  “You know...why not.”

 

* * *

 

When Phil spots Margaret at the restaurant, it’s yet another ordinary thing that used to be utterly impossible.  An unexpected lump forms in his throat.  This shouldn’t be such a big deal, but the truth is it wasn’t so long ago that Phil could no more reconnect with family than he could grow a beard.  These days it's easy to pretend he’s readjusted to living on a mortal man’s time frame, but he at least knows that’s bullshit.  Maybe his thousands of February 2nds were no more real than the Easter Bunny.  It doesn’t change the fact that in his lived reality, Phil probably hasn’t seen any member of his family in decades.

The years are catching up to Margaret Connors much the same as to Phil.  She’s still gorgeous (in a “would be hot if she was anyone but my sister” way), but Margaret’s lost the sorority girl look.  There lines starting to form by her eyes, the smallest bit of grey creeping into her hair.  The whole effect makes her look less like the perfect older sibling he could never live up to, and more, well, human.

Phil hugs her a little too tightly, a little too long.  Phil doesn’t have much in Pittsburgh that hasn’t been painstakingly nurtured over the last six months.  Some days he feels like a puzzle piece that no longer fits into his own life.  It’s exhausting trying to constantly reshape how he fits into this brave new world when he’s still chained to someone he used to be.  But Margaret...the truth is he can’t remember the last time they saw each other more than once a year at absolute most.  For once his February 1st shadow doesn’t have more claim on this than he does now.  And maybe the brother Margaret knew was someone he left behind a long time ago, but this doesn’t change the fact that this is _his_ , dammit.  

“It’s really good to see you,” he confesses.  If she thinks Phil is acting out of character, Margaret doesn’t show it.  Instead, she claps his back and repeats an old childhood nickname that he can only pray that Rita didn’t hear.  Her eyes are genuine and kind.

Of course Margaret and Rita hit it off right away.  And Phil’s not sure what he expected from introducing his sister to his girlfriend, but there are more than a few laughs at his expense.  Like the story about the time when Phil did the promo for the evening weather with his sweater on backwards (The whole point of that story was you could barely _tell_ , dammit.  Unless your traitor girlfriend rats you out and tells your sister exactly where to find the clip).  Or the time when the state troopers sent out a search party, only to find Phil in their family basement stoned out of his mind.

It’s okay, though.  Phil has the story about the time Rita ordered sushi for the panelists in the vegan segment, and the time Margaret mistook Jason Alexander for a waiter.  He can take shit, but that doesn’t mean he won’t give back.  His sides hurt from laughing, and Phil’s surprised to realize that he’s actually enjoying this.

It’s all mostly fine.  Mostly.  Kind of like how a toad only slowly notices it’s being boiled.  Phil’s pulse increases with every inconsistency that comes hurtling across the table.  And of course Rita notices.

“Yeah, Phil always sucked at math-” Margaret starts.  

“Did I ever tell you about the time I got stuck interviewing a so-called Bermuda Triangle expert?”

Rita raises an eyebrow.  “Uh, Phil, I think your sister was trying to say something.”

Phil swears it’s getting colder in here.  Thank God Margaret’s ability to be oblivious hasn’t (completely) changed.  “Oh, it’s just that Phil was a really crappy student.”  

Phil is so relieved that Margaret’s left the math thing go (especially given the contents of his latest package from Amazon) that he doesn’t even care about the insult to his intellectual honor.  He does his best not to directly meet Rita’s gaze when Margaret starts talking about how she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him willingly read a book in his life.

It takes until post-meal coffee for things to spiral completely out of his control.  Margaret frowns over her package of  Splenda.  “Wait, Phil, when did you learn how to speak French?”

He quickly dismisses the notion with a gesture.  “It’s not much, just some stuff I’ve picked up here and there.”

“He’s lying,” Rita immediately cuts in.  (Traitor).  “Like, I studied French in college and lived there for a few years, and it’s not fair cause he’s definitely better than me.”

Margaret raises a quizzical eyebrow.  “I never thought you were the humble type, Phil.”

“Trust me, I’m not.  Hey did you ever-”

But Margaret isn’t letting it go.  “I could have sworn you studied abroad in Amsterdam junior year-”

“Wait, you studied Amsterdam?” Rita cuts in.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”  She laughs.  “I always wanted to go.  How is it then you’re practically fluent in French and you can’t even say stroopwafel right?”

Phil lets out a sigh of irritation and puts his elbow down on the table with more force than he intends.  “Because I spent that entire semester high, okay?”

“Hey, not a mind reader over here,” Rita snaps back.  She’s forcing amusement into her voice but Phil can hear the edge.  

Margaret is starting to fidget with her hands, a habit Phil remembers from when they were kids and she got uncomfortable. Her face betrays nothing, all smooth poise just like he remembers.  “Speaking of mind readers, you know Phil had a crush on Miss Cleo back in the day.”

Phil excuses himself to use the restroom and splashes water on his face in an attempt to relieve his irritation.  This isn’t fair.  It’s not like Rita or Margaret are doing anything wrong here.  Here are two human beings who are deluded enough to willingly go out to dinner with him, and Phil’s ruining it by acting like a fruitcake.

He has his stories to cover the inconsistencies down pretty well these days.  And if his mumbled excuses for his spontaneous years of experience can’t pass a lie detector test, well...he’s only human, okay?  Phil takes a deep breath.  

He comes back to their table to find the situation has only gotten worse.  “Phil plays piano?”

God dammit.  He waves a hand for the waiter’s attention.  “Hey, how’s that check coming along?”

“Just a second!”

“Hey, can we not take this out on college students working minimum wage jobs?”  As it turns out, that crease in Rita’s nose can also appear when she’s irritated.

“Sorry,” Phil mumbles under his breath.  He looks miserable enough that Margaret takes sympathy on him and changes the topic to eccentric students in her yoga classes.  Phil never thought he’d be grateful to hear Margaret talking about _yoga_ , but he jumps into the topic with newly discovered enthusiasm.

By the time the night ends, they’ve regained at least some of the good feelings, thanks to a few laughs at poor Larry’s expense.  Phil hugs Margaret goodbye and promises himself he won’t fuck this up next time.

Phil had meant to ask Rita if she wanted to stay the night.  By unspoken agreement, they both head to their mutual places alone.

 

* * *

 

_Maybe saying that Rita Hanson saved his life isn’t accurate given Phil has died so many times (and is perfectly capable of rising from the grave again should the occasion arise).  Phil’s not the same man who arrived in Punxsutawney on the evening of February 1st.  He certainly won’t claim he’s a better one, but these endless days have whittled him down to a core of lead and tin.  Phil doesn’t know what he would have been capable of had he been stripped down any further, and the thought terrifies him.  He’s accepted that he’s not a good person, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knows there’s a bullet he dodged, a precipice he narrowly avoided._

_So instead Phil tries to shape something out of the molten metal that’s left of him.  He tries being a little gentler to his fellow residents of Punxsutawney (cause let’s face, he’s probably lived here longer than most of them at this point).  He’s amazed when they show him warmth back.  He shouldn’t be surprised, apparently this is what normal people_ do _, but Phil knows now that he’s never been normal, long before any of this disaster started._

_Even with his reprieve from hell, Phil still has his moments.  Sometimes he just really wants the basic comforts of his old life, or a relationship with another human that he doesn’t have to perpetually rebuild from scratch over 24 hours.  On the bad days, Phil’s tempted to have another go at the day when Rita Hanson saved his sanity.  When he confessed the weight of the world to her and she rubbed his back until he steadied himself.  Not out of any lust for Channel 5 Weatherman Phil Connors, but because she was and is such a good person._

_Phil won’t let himself cheapen that day.  Even if he could replay things perfectly, he refuses to devour and degenerate this memory.  But of course Rita’s perceptive, and she’s so incredibly kind.  Without meaning to, Phil turns to her on those not so great days.  Doesn’t tell her about how he’s either a god or an alien with superpowers, but he lets himself open up to her when she approaches him at the bar saying that he looks down.  Phil can’t tell her about the loop, but he can tell her that he feels lost and alone.  And Rita Hanson is the kind of person who will listen compassionately to anyone, even the asshole co-worker everyone warned her about.  Oh, and of course she’ll still call Phil on his shit - sometimes it pisses him off, but he’s also oddly grateful that someone in this tiny world still can._

_Phil wishes he could repay her.  Instead, he brings Rita coffee and pastries and quietly glows inside when her face lights up.  He maneuvers events so that Rita runs into the right people at the right time during the Gobbler’s Knob routine and serendipitously gets roped into a painting lesson.  Phil even tries a few times to encourage Billy at the bar to ask her out, but that one doesn’t seem to take and even he feels creepy trying to force it.  But Rita has had to put up with his bullshit for likely decades now and he wants to do something in return.  Even if she’ll never remember._

_Maybe it’s not a life, but it’s what he has, and Phil knows enough of the alternative to be grateful for to Rita for giving him a path back to it._

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Phil gets to work early and hovers by the parking garage with Rita’s favorite coffee order.  

“Are you trying to bribe me?” she asks when she spots him.

Phil pretends to consider the question.  “Maybe.  Okay, yeah.”

Rita takes the coffee and has a sip.  Phil swears he can _see_ the caffeine hitting her brain.  “You’re not off the hook,” she reminds him.

Phil smiles ruefully.  “Do I at least get a place at the negotiating table?”

Rita has another swig of coffee and considers.  Whatever he looks like, it must be pathetic, because she smiles ever so slightly.

“I was grouchy.”  It doesn’t matter how much practice he had in Punxsutawney, Phil will never be good at this.  He tries anyway.  “I’m sorry.”  He hesitantly offers a hand.  

Rita takes it.  “Yeah, you were.” (Phil hates it when she’s right, but in this case she really is and he knows it).  “And...I’m sorry if I went too far in giving you a hard time, or insisting on crashing your plans when you were probably just starting to patch things up.  You’re not exactly an open book here, but I get the impression this whole family thing seems hard.”

“Yeah.” Rita simultaneously has him pegged and is completely off the mark.  But better for her to think this is about the baggage he _can_ explain.  Around them, cars hum as they enter the garage.  Someone’s cell phone goes off.  Phil has never noticed the details of his shoes before now - it really is time for a new pair.

Rita squeezes his hand.  “I get it, you’re a guy.  You have macho dude bullshit around feelings, but whatever’s going on...you _can_ talk to me, you know?”

Phil gives a small nod.

He really doesn’t know how long he can keep this up.

 

* * *

 

Phil feels the most like himself when he’s playing piano.

This piece has always reminded him of falling snow - melancholic and beautiful.  You’d think after years in Punxsutawney that Phil would be more into music that reminded him of the beach, but there was always something cathartic and true he liked about this piece.  It’s not as technically challenging or flashy as others he knows, but he’s fond of it nonetheless.  

These days he’s a vibrating image caught between a multitude of Phil Connors.  The narcissistic Scrooge of February 1st, aka the one everyone remembers.  The miracle worker of that perfect February 2nd, aka the one he’s forever chasing and is terrified he will never catch up to.  And then there’s the Phil who is still forever reliving Groundhog Day.  These days he exists in the space between all (or none) of them.

Playing the piano brings Phil back to those endless afternoons in Punxsutawney and Mrs. Baker’s living room.  So much of his time in Groundhog Day was painful, but he came to truly love that particular window of time.  He enjoyed coming up with different ways to surprise Mrs. Baker - bringing her flowers, helping out around the house, even trying his hand at cooking her dinner once or twice.  He never really got the hang of that, but Clara always seemed to appreciate the effort, bless her heart.  God, he misses them all.

Clara Baker was always so grateful for his gesture of the day, but the truth was Phil always got the better end of the bargain.  Not just in having a friend (because let’s face it, he got to know her pretty damn well after a while), but because Phil didn’t have to pretend when he played.  Sure, there was the usual song and dance of telling Mrs. Baker about how he was a beginner, and he just happened to see her sign about offering piano lessons.    But as soon as he sat down at the piano bench Phil no longer had to play role of a weatherman passing through a small town.  Whoever Phil had become he got to be it without disguise, at least for those few hours.  

These days it’s much the same.  When he plays, Phil lets his mind drift away from the elaborate web of half-truths he’s constructed to bridge himself back into his own life.  Whatever Rita thinks he is, he knows he’s not it.  Phil can let down his guard and just be a retired immortal, fragmented and unsure of how he connects to anything good in his life.  

Phil looks back from the piano bench at the woman playing with her phone in his kitchen.  He’s long given up understanding how he ever could have overlooked Rita Hanson.  He _really_ doesn’t understand why she gives him the time of day, let alone dates him.

Phil’s ultimately just too damn selfish to let her go.  Maybe Phil’s fooling Rita, but he knows that he’s still broken.  

He pushes a foot down on the pedal, relieved to be in a space where he doesn’t have to pretend otherwise.  

 

* * *

 

_Day unknown of infinity:_

_Phil doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before._

_Sure, he’s said the words plenty of times.  Sometimes because that’s what girls needed to hear to go the next step.  Sometimes because he wanted to believe the words.  (Phil_ wanted _to be in love with Joelle, he swears.  She probably wanted to be in love with him too),_

_Is this love?  It seems laughable.  Rita Hanson has known him for a day.  She will only ever know him for a day._

_Phil has known her for a lifetime._

_He knows now that he knows nothing.  There are no rules, no judges in this place, only what sense he can make of this universe.  But if there’s anything that’s true here, it’s that Rita Hanson is the bravest, kindest, most incredible person Phil has ever met._

_There’s a name for this feeling, and he’s just starting to figure out what it is._  

 

* * *

 

“Is this milk still good?” Rita asks.

“I wouldn’t know,” Phil replies, not looking up from the daily crossword.  Five letter word, second letter R.  He really should not be trying this without coffee.  “Did you check the...”

He stops mid-sentence.  There’s something that’s familiar about-  

Phil’s _been_ here before.  

Rita’s wearing one of his running shirts. (Fuck, which one was it?) It started this way last time too, he didn’t know until too late that the doors had slammed shut and he was stuck on the other side in a freezing hell.

Phil can’t remember what _day_ it is.  He only knows the sun in the kitchen looks exactly the same.  Jesus Christ, what day is it?

Phil forces himself to breathe.  (He can’t breathe).  “Tell me what day it is.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Dammit!” He doesn’t realize his fist has come down on the table until he hears the clatter of displaced utensils.  “What’s the goddamn date?” (He doesn’t _mean_ to shout the words, but they’re toppling from him every which way and he can’t catch them).

Rita fumbles for her phone.  “It’s um-”

“Yesterday, what the fuck did we do yesterday???”  The words shoot out of him faster and with more force than he intends.  Phil can’t stop.

“Phil, what-”

He swears he can _feel_ his heart slamming against his rib cage.  Phil can’t do this again, he can’t.  “Just tell me, what day is it??”

“It’s August 15th.”

August 15th.  Margaret came into town on the 2nd.  (The world slows down just a little).  He knows Margaret’s visit was on the 2nd, because that marked six months since he left Punxsutawney.  

The tightness in his chest lets up, replaced by dizziness.

There’s a point of clarity in front of him.  It’s Rita Hanson, and she is _not_ happy.  “Phil, what the hell is going on?”

He can’t, he _won’t_ do this.  He can screw up everything else, but not Rita.  Phil did not spend eternity in Punxsutawney just so he could blow it now by acting like a fucking weirdo.  

“I’m just...stressed lately.” The words are amazingly lame even to his own ears.  From the expression on her face, Rita buys it about as much as the accuracy of Punxsutawney Phil’s forecast.  He’s seen her angry before, but there’s real hurt mixed in here too.  Worst of all, pity.  (He doesn’t deserve gentleness).

“I’m sorry I freaked out.”  Phil doesn’t meet her eyes.”

“Phil, it’s fine, I’m just worried about-”

“Don’t.” The word is clipped, cutting off all discussion.  Phil can’t bare how _disappointed_ Rita looks right now.  “I uh, need to get some errands done.”

Love you, he wants to add, as if that could help the situation.

Phil can’t look at her when he leaves.

 

* * *

 

Phil is already dead.  He’s not sure how it happened this round, only that it’s already over and done with.  The problem with dying in Groundhog Day is it only hastens the inevitable blare of the next 6:00 AM alarm.  Only this time, Phil’s not going anywhere, he’s not moving.  His body feels heavy even as he knows he shouldn’t be able to feel anything.  He’s dead and everything is grey and numb and he’s still here.  The snow never ceases to fall.

Time passes slowly - a hundred Groundhog Days, a thousand.  The snow melts and the grass beneath him goes from yellow to lush green and back to dead brown.  Phil’s body fades into dust and earth.

And then a million years later, in the distance someone in a black winter coat and a grey scarf casually approaches Gobbler’s Knob.  Phil shifts closer to the scene.  He has no form now and it’s so easy just to drift.  The man is himself, of course.  It’s morning, and it’s Groundhog Day.

There are other people coming up to the Knob.  Buster in his top hat and best suit.  Debbie and Fred in their marching band uniforms.  Larry is setting up his camera.  And Rita, in that unforgettable burgundy coat and ridiculous socks.  He reaches a hand out to her.  It passes straight through.

“Can we try that again?” They’ve skipped ahead a beat.  Rita is irritated at...Phil.  Not himself, but this other Phil.

Other Phil rolls his eyes.  “Once a year the eyes of the nation turn to this tiny hamlet in the middle of nowhere…”

The day continues on without him.  Other Phil drips with disdain through his selfie with Fred and Debbie and the universe is none the worse for it.  He has no change today for Mr. Jensen and the world keeps on rolling.  There’s no blizzard announcement from Wilbur and Jack.  Phil and Larry and Rita get in the van and just go.

Back in Pittsburgh, Other Phil takes up Martin on his offer of meeting his contact at The Weather Channel.  The three of them drink and have more than a few laughs at the expense of the rest of the world’s morons (it’s not like anyone is going to say otherwise).  

Other Phil gets a good gig, complete with limo service and endless evenings of alcohol and superficial chat with colleagues as they mutually jerk off about how great they are.  He doesn’t do much other than work and schmooze with connections to the next rung up the career ladder, but it’s not like he wants anything else anyway.

Slowly, he’s taking form solid form again, and he’s realizing that he’s moving in step with Other Phil.  He _is_ Other Phil.

He gets his own regular spot on some national weather show.  His life is divided up into work, sleep, and alcohol.  Occasionally a woman, for a night or two at least.

He runs into Rita at some cocktail event in Chicago.  In the first version of the evening, he tells her she’d look even better out of that dress and she slaps him.  But Phil just goes back to the beginning of the night over and over again, until he knows exactly what to say, how to coax out that crease in her nose, how to get Rita to walk outside with him at the end of the night.  Other Phil puts an arm around her shoulders.  He knows that she’s flinching and he can’t get Other Phil to do anything about it.  Phil’s hand drifts closer to the bare skin of her neckline, until his fingers are teasing the curve of her breast.

Rita says something in a warning tone.  He just laughs and leans in to kiss her.  Rita draws back and slaps him across the face.  Other Phil finds this hilarious reaches to grab her arm.

Phil can’t do it any more.  He wrenches himself out of his counterpart, knocking them both to the ground.  He’s not solid, but at least he has shape again.  And Rita is no longer here, thank God. He doesn’t know when she left, but she’s safe from him and that’s all that matters.

Other Phil is still laughing as he picks himself up, like this is the funniest thing he’s ever experienced.  He looks Phil straight in the eye.  “You crack me up, man.”

“You can see me.”  (It’s not like there are any rules or logic in this place, but for some reason that’s what’s bothering him the most right now).

Other Phil slaps him on the back.  “Phil, I’ve been here the whole time, of course I can see you.  Just wish you wouldn’t take things so seriously, you know?”

“You’re disgusting,” Phil spits out.  He feels sick.

His counterpart raises an eyebrow.  “Am I now.  The thing is, we’re not so different.”  He gestures to the space where Rita had been standing.  “C’mon, are you really saying you never even thought about this?  All those loops where the princess wouldn’t put out no matter how much you wined and dined her.  You didn’t even _think_ about what you could do to take matters into your own hands?”

Phil swallows.  “I would never-”  The thing is of _course_ he had thought about it, because boredom and desperation can drive a man to things previously unthinkable, and every day Phil is grateful that suicidality overtook him before he could become a fucking rapist.  (He’s still prepared to blow everything up if it means keeping the people he loves safe from him).

“Oh really?  That’s why you kept trying to trick your way into her pants for what, five years, give or take?  Cause you’re so noble?” Other Phil puts a hand on his shoulder, and Phil wishes desperately he could go back to not being solid.  “You think you’re all that different now?  Aren’t you still putting on an act to get her in your bed?”

“That’s not-”

“What would it take for us to get to the same path?”  Phil doesn’t know when he started being able to feel his heart again, but it goes cold.  “Just time, right?  And we have plenty of that.”

“Go to hell.”

Other Phil just smiles.  “Okay.”  The gun appears out of thin air.  Phil knows that cold metal as well as the lines of his own palms.  Other Phil points it straight at his own head, even as a mirrored version appears next to Phil’s, and suddenly all he can think about is all of the times he died from bleeding out. “God dammit, don’t-”

The crack of gunpowder.

 

* * *

 

When Phil wakes up on the couch, his heart is crashing down a million beats a minute.  He’s desperate for air.  Phil breathes it in deep, stuttering gulps.  He’s still suffocating.

He’s not alone.  “Phil, what...?” Rita is standing over him, an arm poised inches away from his shoulder.   She reaches for him, but for all that Phil needs Rita like he need oxygen, he can’t deal with touch right now.  He flinches away.

The world feels upside down.  “What the hell?” he mumbles.  Phil barely remembers falling asleep.  “Since when do you start sneaking in my house like a fucking burglar?”  
  
“Since I started leaving the shoes I _really_ like here and you gave me a goddamn key.” Rita’s voice is sharp with exasperation.  “What the _fuck_ is going on with you, Phil?”

Phil can’t do this, not when the blast of the gun is still ringing in his ears.  The words come out dangerously close to a sob, but he won’t let himself do this, not in front of Rita.  If he does, something will break, and for good.  “I can’t...not right now.”

Instead, Phil forces himself to stand up.  He grits his teeth and pushes himself through the dizziness.  He heads into the bathroom without a word.  Rita says something in infuriated protest, but he can’t (or won’t) hear the words.  He quickly undresses and turns the shower knob as hot as it can go.

Phil’s shaking so badly he has to lean against the wall for support.  The water is scalding.  Ever so slowly, he comes back to himself.

When he returns, there’s no trace of Rita other than a note hastily scrawled on a receipt.   _Call when you want to talk._ _Really_ _want to help but can’t deal with bullshit._  There’s a last bit that’s crossed out.

Phil lies down in his own bed, alone.  He doesn’t fall asleep for a long, long time.

 

* * *

 

Even after he finally nods off Phil sleeps like shit.  It’s just his luck that he sleeps through his alarm the next morning, and that traffic is terrible.  He ends up almost 45 minutes late.  Paul is _pissed._

By the time he’s done filming Phil has a blaring headache on top of everything else.  Ellen the intern gingerly approaches him to ask if there’s anything he can do.  He tells her to fuck off.  

(Phil catches her crying near the bathroom 10 minutes later.  He doesn’t know _how_ to say anything).

People are deliberately avoiding him now.  Phil doesn’t know how to _stop_.

He’ll give himself one thing: He can still turn on the old Phil Connors magic when it’s time to do the broadcast.  He knows how to bury it so he’s all all poise and charm doesn’t miss a beat.  Everything’s fine.  Truly.

Phil can do this.  He’ll come up with the perfect cover story for Rita, he’ll be softer, he’ll be kinder.  He’ll apologize to everyone at the station, make it up to them.  Fuck, he’ll go back on the Xanax if it’ll help.

It occurs to him around 4:30 that he’s barely eaten all day.  In the break room kitchen, a few of the janitorial staff are watching a some opera or some tripe.  He just needs something in his stomach, he just needs a moment to think.

At least by the grace of God he still has leftover takeout in the staff fridge.  In the back of his mind Phil is aware that he’s unsteady.  If this nightmare of a day ever ends he should get his blood sugar checked or something because he’s practically shaking.

His elbow knocks the office toaster into the sink with a clang.  Fuck, that hurts, it just figures that-

The kitchen faucet drips ever so slightly.  Phil stares at the toaster’s cool plastic silver in equal parts fascination and horror.  Time and the world have come to a standstill.  He feels a sharp pain as his lungs collapse into his chest and-

Phil fills up Mrs. Lancaster’s bathtub with water, giddy with the idea that in the end he’ll be giving his mother the middle finger and all of her “Don’t waste water!” faux-liberal bullshit.  He strides with purpose into the kitchen common area.  No one cares that Phil’s in nothing but his boxers or that he unplugs the toaster without a word.  Good, Mrs. Lancaster does have a three-pronged outlet in here.  He hopes at least one of the Clevelands was planning on having toast that morning.  If he’s going through the bother of blowing himself off this mortal coil he wants someone to  _notice,_ goddammit-

Splash.  The sputter of electricity.  His muscles seize up all at once.  Fuck, this was supposed to be fast, it wasn’t supposed to _hurt-_

Darkness.  The blare of the alarm clock like the sound of a predatory animal coming straight at him.

(In the back of his mind Phil is vaguely aware of the cleaning ladies asking in heavily accented English if he’s alright.  His chest is heaving and he’s clinging to the kitchen counter for dear life.  Phil wants to reassure them he’s _fine,_ but he can’t make the words come out).

Phil’s in the Burrow Bar.  It doesn’t matter if he finishes the whole damn bottle.  It’s not like his body can build up an alcohol tolerance, but vodka stopped doing the trick a long, long time ago.  Phil’s good these days at drinking just enough - not so much that he passes out or dies of poisoning, but just enough that he can spend a few hours wasted out of his mind so he doesn’t have to-

It doesn’t matter what he does, where he goes, this is _hell_ and he can’t escape, can’t move, nothing changes, _he_ never changes, he's alone forever and this is hell and he can't-

Rita.  She’s with him now on the bench in front of Gobbler’s Knob.  She puts an arm around his shoulder and pulls him into her.  

“Phil, I need you to breathe.”

Rita can't be with him in Punxsutawney, cause she's not wearing the right clothes.  She’s...here.  Phil’s here.  In Pittsburgh.  It’s August.

Slowly, the world comes back.  

Phil doesn’t know how he got to the old green room (the one they’ve stopped using ever since the remodel), but lying against the couch cushions is a nice alternative to standing.  Rita’s rubbing his hand.  Phil absently realizes she’s been doing this for a while.  It feels nice.

Phil reaches out cautious a hand to touch her face.  Rita’s real, she’s solid.  

“Hey,” he chokes.

“Hey.” Her skin is warm against his.  Rita brushes something out of her eye.  “You were really out of it, Phil.  I...I got scared you weren’t going to come back.”  Relief seeps into her voice.  “How are you feeling?”

Phil laughs in an attempt not to _cry_.  “Like shit.”

Rita laughs mirthlessly.  “That sounds about right.”

She pulls his head against her chest.  Phil is going to have to face the music any moment now, but for now he’ll hang onto this sanctuary for dear life.  “Thanks, for...for this.”

“How could I not?”

“Because I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

"Phil, don’t-”  He doesn’t have the strength to pull away from her.  Rita gives a rueful sigh.  “Yeah, you did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”  She lifts his face she can look directly at him.  “Phil, I love you.  Maybe I’m insane because of it, but it’s true.”

“I know.”  After all, Phil knows better than to call Rita Hanson a liar.  He strokes a thumb over her cheek in wonder.   The miracle of her words rock his world even now.

“You need to tell me what’s going on.” Her voice is gentle, but holds no room for argument.

He’ll never be as whittled down to nothing as those terrible, unending February 2nds, but Phil knows how raw he is right now.  Keep on stripping him down, and soon there will be nothing left.  Something has to give, and he can’t stand for that to be whatever shred of decency he’s cultivated.  Even when Rita inevitably leaves this room thinking he belongs in a mental asylum, at least she’ll know the truth.  This at least is one wrong that he can right.

The axis of his world tilted that February 2nd he spent with Rita, the one he spent telling her about the weight of his burdens like he was giving confession.  Phil isn’t ready for it to tilt again.  But if the earth is going to spin out of control regardless, then he’ll hold onto Rita Hanson for dear life.

“Okay.  It um...started on Groundhog Day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I realize that's an evil place to end it - sorry! I know I keep saying "two more parts!" I swear I really do have some wrap-up, and then an epilogue.
> 
> A *huge* thank you to ventrie, who was kind enough to give feedback on some early drafts and is largely responsible for making sure Rita didn't lose her edge.
> 
> I spend way too much of my free time on this fic - constructive criticism and comments are always highly appreciated!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains more discussion of suicidality and non-explicit sexytimes.

_Phil is having a pretty good day.  The forecast went well, if he can say so himself.  He’s finally gotten the hang of catching the damn cat in time.  Rita even asked him out for coffee.  Phil has_ no _fucking clue what changed on that front, but he figures he must be doing something right these days._

_Of course Phil’s long sworn off trying to get anything from Rita.  She’s already done more for him than he’ll ever be able to repay._

_That’s enough._

_Phil likes to imagine that after each of her February 2nds, Rita goes back to Pittsburgh and finds someone who really makes her happy.  Or maybe just adopts a really awesome cat, cause it’s not like Rita’s not the type to be waiting around for Prince Charming when there's a whole universe out there for her to experience._

_Still, the idea that Rita actually_ wants _to have coffee with him puts an extra spring in Phil’s step, extra energy in his high five when Fred tells him that Debbie said yes._

_Yeah, it’s definitely been a good day._

_This is never what Phil imagined as a life for himself. But over time it_ has _become his life, and the truth is he’s found peace with it.  Find a new way to spin the forecast.  Stop Mr. Cleveland from choking.  Get Mr. Jensen to someplace warm and comfortable before he passes.  Play the piano for a few hours._

_It's still possible he died in his sleep on the evening of February 1st, and this is all he gets for eternity.  But Phil has at least a few more tricks up his sleeve before he's done everything on February 2nd._

_It’s not that he doesn’t still miss Chinese food, or that he never thinks about life beyond the borders of Punxsutawney.  Back in his worst days he thought giving up and living would be defeat.  Weird how it’s turned into acceptance, and maybe even peace.  Phil's pretty sure he's never before in his life been at peace._

_Phil stops by the B &B and explains his errand to Mabel Lancaster.  It’s only recently he put together that Doris’s unreturnable Christmas gift is a certain Associate Producer’s exact shoe size.   With any luck, the boots will fit Rita.  It’s not much to repay everything she’s given him, but it’s something. _

_Phil checks his watch.  Six o’clock - time to see if he can make this improv solo work this time._

 

* * *

 

“For the record, I uh...I just need to say that I don’t expect you to believe any of this.” It’s important to get that part out there now, rather than in a few minutes when Rita starts questioning Phil’s sanity and her life choices.  

“Phil, just-”

He chuckles joylessly.  “Ihardly believe it, and it happened to me.”

Rita looks torn between sympathy and plain frustration.  Mercy narrowly wins out and she squeezes his hand.  “Phil, just let me try, okay?  I’ll decide what I do and don’t believe.”

“That’s what you said the last time,” he mumbles under his breath.  It’s time to go in for a penny, in for a pound.  “So...Groundhog Day.  Woke up in Punxsutawney, did the forecast, was a total prick-”

“No you weren-”

Phil puts up a hand to stop her.  If he doesn't do this now he's going to lose his nerve. “Just let me finish.  Please.”  Rita nods, so he takes a breath and continues.  “We got snowed in by the blizzard.  I was seriously pissed off about having to stay in Punxsutawney.  Went as far as making Larry start the van and try driving, but we only got a few miles out before we had to turn around.“

Rita’s starting to look at him askance.  I’m sorry, he wants to tell her.  You _asked_.

“Ran into you at the hotel bar later that night.  I was completely frozen over.  You were kind so of course I acted like a complete asshole.”  He laughs bitterly.  “I’m really sorry about that, by the way.” The ‘even though you don’t remember or have _any_ idea what I’m talking about’ is unspoken.  But Rita's letting him continue, so he does.

“Next morning, I woke up.  Packed my bag and got ready to get the hell out of dodge.  The thing is, um...it was still Groundhog Day.”  Phil's eyes remain fixated on the spot on the wall straight ahead.  “As in literally it was the same day I had experienced the day before, only it hadn’t actually _happened_.”

Cautiously, he meets Rita’s eyes.  Any other situation and Phil would have laughed at the expression on her face.  “What?”

“Yeah, yeah, I _know_.”  

“How does that even-”

“I could still remember everything about that first Groundhog Day, but everyone else was acting like it was February 2nd for the first time.” Phil shakes his head.  “Look I _know_ it sounds crazy.”

Rita hasn’t let go of his hand - at least not yet.  Phil’s scared if he breaks away from her now, she'll dissolve into mist a la Eurydice and vanish forever.  So he keeps going even as he fears he's walking towards the edge of a cliff.  “Of course I thought I was going nuts.  I figured it was all a prank, or I was having a stroke, or just a good ole mental break.  Except it kept happening.  I'd go to bed at Mrs. Lancaster’s after getting snowed in, and when I woke up it would still be Groundhog Day morning.  Couldn't stop it, no matter what I did. _._ ”

Rita has that distant look in her eyes that she gets when she’s trying to work something out.   Of course she’s probably considering all of this logically.  Phil doesn’t know if he’s grateful or ready to scream.  “Did you ever just try not going to sleep?”

Phil looks at her as if she’s suggested he try cutting out gluten.  “Probably within the first week.  6 AM to 6 AM, that’s what I had, and then...back to the radio alarm songs about who is that emerging from his burrow.”

“Wait, you’re telling me in this story _that’s_ what you were waking up to?” Rita snorts.  “Cute song, but I can’t imagine listening to it for weeks on end.”

There's something reassuring in knowing that even _Rita_ would get sick of that song eventually.  “Weeks,” he scoffs.  “I um...I could never keep track of time in Punxsutawney.  Tried a few times, it just got too depressing.  But a _lot_ more than weeks.”

“So...months.”

“I never could count.  I mean I could, but whenever I reached the thousands it got too depressing and then I would stop and I’d have to start over the next time I felt inspired.”

Phil can only imagine Rita’s mental calculations.  “I just know it was a long time.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Phil goes about a measure too long in his solo, but Mrs. Baker catches on like a champ.  Phil flashes her a thumbs up sign and makes a mental note to buy her a drink this time tomorrow._

_Phil's sacrifice to the bachelor's auction started around the time he got good enough at piano to be in the Groundhog Band.  Phil's stolen a_ lot _of money from Punxsutawney over the years.  Even if it's in the past (so to speak), he's not proud.  But right now he's at roughly $5,000 raised for the Groundhog Fund.  It'll take a while to completely make that one up, but Phil's got nothing but time and isn't too worried._

_Maybe his perception of a good evening has gotten warped over time, but it's actually fun getting caught up in it all.  Mrs. Lancaster is a surprisingly good slow dancer, and Debbie is at least an enthusiastic one.  Jeff always glows whenever he wins, although Phil wants to eventually point him in the direction of Wilbur.  He's happy to dance with the kid, but the deputy might give Jeff an actual chance at some happiness._

_Phil hears the familiar call of numbers.  It really has been a good day.  The truth is he’s happy to spend it in the company of the people who have become his friends.  It's a scenario that by now he knows by heart, but that doesn’t change his fondness._

_“Three hundred and thirty nine dollars and eighty eight cents!”_

_He knows that voice as well as his own.  That doesn’t stop Phil’s heart from giving a small lurch when he looks up at the bidder._

_Well...this is different._

 

* * *

 

 Phil rests his neck against the top of the couch.  Rita is perched up against the sides of the sofa, her knees curled towards her chest.  They’re either about two feet or several miles apart.  

“Gotta say when you started acting like something was bothering you, I didn’t think _this_ was it.”

“I am...morbidly curious to know what you thought was going on,” Phil admits.

Rita shrugs.  “I thought there was some traumatic thing in your family that seeing your sister brought up.”

Phil chuckles mirthlessly.  “Nah, just the usual family bullshit.  It was actually good to see Margaret - sorry I ruined it.”

“You didn’t _ruin_ it, I just didn't know what was going on with you.  The way you've been acting for the last few weeks...I’ve seen returning vets and stuff.  You weren’t that far off.”

“Now you’re a shrink, Hanson?”

“As much as you’re a time traveler.” Rita returns curtly.

Phil doesn’t mean to sound sharp, but the truth is even on a good day he _hates_ talking about this kind of stuff.  The fact that the universe has forced his hand is just making him more resentful.  Phil considers for the first time the consequences of having a panic attack in the office kitchen.  Maybe providing good office gossip will at least chip away his karmic debt.

“I dunno, I was scared you had a mistress and a kid in another state-”

That at least startles a laugh out of him.  “Definitely not.”

“And no major untreated mood disorders?”

“Well, one of the quack docs in Punxsutawney told me I might be allergic to gluten, but…” It's ridiculous they’re having this conversation when Rita is undoubtedly convinced he’s off his rocker.  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Phil, _please_ stop trying to put words into my mouth that I didn’t say.  Yeah, this really wasn’t what I was expecting to be what was bothering you.  I don't know what to believe, but I never said I _don't_ believe you.  It’s not like you can prove something like this anyway.”

It shouldn’t matter if Rita believes him or not, because there’s just no way any of this can end well.  But the truth is Phil’s desperate to prove there’s a _reason_ he’s fucking all this up, and not just that he’s crazier than a groundhog on magic mushrooms.

“For a couple of years after you moved to Pennsylvania, you thought that the town was named after Punxsutawney Phil, and not the other way around.”

Phil swears he can _see_ Rita thinking about which of her friends she confessed this to, and whether Phil has met any of them.  “Okay…”

Might as well try an oldie but a goodie.  “You slept with the lights on until you were 12 because you were scared of the dark and thought that Jesus was going to jump out of the shadows and get mad at you for not helping out more.”  

“You realize that could apply to any kid who went to my church, right?”

Dammit, there has to be _something_.  “Your family used to vacation in Maine.”

Rita sighs in exasperation, and Phil can see she’s clearly done with playing this mental game of ‘Supernatural incident or stalker?’  “For fuck’s sake Phil, I overheard my aunt telling you that at the hospital.”

“You liked walking down to the beach by yourself at night, even though your mom didn’t like you going out alone.  So of course that made you want to do it more.  One night you snuck out after everyone had fallen asleep, and you found a bunch of drunk college kids who had brought back a turtle from a beach on the other side of the town and were poking it with sticks.  You were scared shitless, but you just walked right up to them and announced that this kind of turtle produced a pheromone that could make men’s balls fall off.“

He has Rita’s full attention now.

“The thing was the turtle had to be released at this one particular cove on the other side of...shit, sorry, I forget the name of the town, but it was something to do with the way the ocean currents worked.  Otherwise it was going to be 105 the next day and it would just get baked.  By the time you dropped off the turtle it was after 3 in the morning.  Of course at that point your mom was literally on the phone with the police.  You were grounded for the rest of vacation, but you swear when you came back a few years later you saw a turtle with the exact same markings.”

Something in Rita’s eyes has changed.  “Well, that’s uncanny.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t even tell my brothers or my friends about the turtle thing.  I mean, it’s not a huge secret, but I don’t get how that could even come up in conversation.”

“Honestly?  Things got a little wild at the Groundhog Ball, and you were trying to reassure Fred Kleiser that Spock the Tortoise would be okay.”  Phil rolls his eyes at Rita’s incredulous expression.  “Look, it wasn’t my best moment, but I promise no animals actually got _hurt_.”

Rita nods slowly, as if she’s finally considering the implications of this ridiculous scenario. “So you already know all of my secrets.”  

“Just the stuff I could get you to tell me on Groundhog Day.”

Phil’s not sure if Rita has really heard him.  “And you’ve just been playing along every time I told you stuff about me.”

Here it comes.  “ _No_.  I...okay, sometimes.  Like I knew you had a dog named Steven growing up - that’s why I got weird that one time at your place when I saw the photo, I forgot that you hadn’t actually told me that.”

“Huh?”

It figures Rita didn’t even notice.  “Look, I got a lot of trivia.  I swear it was only the stuff I could get you to tell me, and since I always had to start over with you thinking I was a total prick, that was limited.”

Rita rests her forehead in her right hand.  “Look, it’s just...This is just a lot.  Because when we started going out, most of what I knew about you came from co-workers and what I could see on TV.  I assumed you were at the same level.  Exactly how long have we known each other, Phil?”

“The flood story was what, last November?”

“Dammit, that’s not what I-”

“I told you, I don’t _know_.”  Phil doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but he doesn’t know how to explain any of this to himself, let alone Rita.  “I tried reading one page a day from the first book on the shelf in Mabel Lancaster’s kitchen.  It was the best way I ever had of keeping track.”

“And?”

“I gave up after I got to the end of the first shelf.”

Rita shakes her head in disbelief.  “You said you were five years older than me.”

“Oh, I'm still 41,” Phil cuts in.  The look Rita flashes him conveys her real meaning.   “I don’t know.  I’ve tried to figure it out before and...I don’t know.”

And you wonder why I didn’t lead with all of this, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

_These days Phil figures he knows everything about Rita Hanson._

_Of course the knowing could never diminish her power, or her strength.  She’s kept him steady through this long winter.  Acted as his constant weapon against despair._

_It's one of many reasons he loves her._

_Phil no longer has it in him to be bitter that all he’ll ever be able to offer Rita is quiet gratitude.  Phil's world can never reach beyond February 2nd in Punxsutawney.  But with that world comes Ned, and Fred and Debbie, and Mrs. Lancaster, and Clara Baker and her piano and thousand other people to meet and a million other things to do and try._

_And every morning that he wakes up here, Rita is with him._

_It’s enough to outlast this endless storm._

_The thing is he’s never experienced a sequence of events on February 2nd_ anything _like this one._

_Forget about being a god, Phil doesn’t know anything about what’s happening right in front of his eyes.  For the first time that he can remember, he’s stepping into unknown territory._

_And...it’s okay.  Phil is okay - maybe for the first time ever._

_He holds out a hand.  Rita smiles as she takes it._

 

* * *

 

Rita crosses her legs.  “If there’s anything else you haven’t told me, I’d appreciate it if you just got it out now.”

Fuck, where to start.  “I hadn’t touched a piano before Groundhog Day.”

“You said you took lessons when you were in college.”

“I lied.”  The words feel like a slap.  “Clara Baker offers _very_ reasonably priced piano lessons.  She’s free from 2 to 5 the afternoon of Groundhog Day, and you can get her to go later if you make sure one of her grandkids comes by and offers to walk the dog.”  Phil adds under his breath,  “I mean, if you made sure.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve never been to France in my life.  That’s why my accent is so bad.  It all came from library books and practicing with one of the guys in the marching band who took it in college.  Oh, and I actually hadn’t listened to Indie Arie before, I just didn’t want to admit it in front of your friends.  I promise I went home that night and downloaded her whole discography.”

Phil knows he’s babbling.  It’s not like any of this can help - it’s inevitable that he’s going to lose Rita.  This time sans a reset button.  He might as well give her the dignity of being honest.  She deserves so much more, but he can give her at least that much.  “I stole the cash transfer from the Punxsutawney cops a few hundred times, give or take.  It’s um, surprisingly easy when you have the timing down.”

Rita just stares at him.  “You robbed a bank.”

“No, I stole the payroll - robbing a bank would have meant that Punxsutawney First Union was open on Groundhog Day.  Look, I’m not proud of all of this, okay?”

“I didn’t say I was _judging_.  I just want to know what I’m dealing with, okay?”

Laying out the true wreck that is Phil Connors isn’t fun, but at least it’s brimming with low hanging fruit.  “I slept with a lot of women.”

Rita snorts. “What counts as a lot?”

“Most of them.” Phil wants to flinch at the look on Rita's face, something between horror and disbelief.  “Over the age of _eighteen_ ,” he adds emphatically.

“Seriously?”

Phil shrugs.  “I had all the time in the world, literally.  I got _bored_.  If you infinite chances to learn the exact right things to say, you’d be amazed at what you can get people to do.”

Rita’s eyes pass over him as if she’s looking at Phil in a different light for the first time and analyzing all of the shadows she missed.  “On one hand, this is all really, _really_ shitty and gross.  On the other hand...it didn’t actually happen, so I don’t know what that means.  It would be like you telling me you were responsible for dropping the atom bomb in another life.”

Well, that’s at least something he can say for himself.  “Not that I know of.”

But despite her words, Rita’s not done yet.  “So did you sleep with me?”

“No,” he says emphatically.  “Um...not that I didn’t try.”  

“What the fuck does trying mean?”

“Taking you out for dinner a lot, figuring out all the right things to get you interested.”  Finally, _finally_ he’s laying his sins on the table, letting Rita see who he really is.  Phil’s not sure if it’s a burden off his shoulders or another knife to the gut.  “Look, it was shitty - I’m not trying make excuses for it.”

“So what was the real Groundhog Day, then?  The one time you actually suceeded-”

“Dammit, Rita, you’re the one who spent $400 on a dance with me-”

“So were you figuring out how to say the exact thing so I’d fall for you-”

“Fuck, _no_ , I wasn’t.”

“Then what the hell were you trying to do?”

“ _Live_ , for Christ’s sake.”  He lets his head drop into his hands.  “I was...just trying to make a life for myself, goddammit.”

Rita exhales, exasperated.  “And what does that mean?”

Phil shrugs.  “It was better than the alternative.”

“Dammit Phil, for once in your life could you please _not_ vague your way out of talking about things?”

This is absurd.  He has no idea what he hoped to gain by telling Rita about any of this, other than losing her faith in his _sanity_ along with everything else.  His voice grows quiet.  “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“The way it doesn’t matter that you’re freaking out over milk-”

“Did you ever consider that I _really_ hate deja vu?”

“-and waking up from nightmares and having panic attacks in the fucking staff kitchen?”  Rita laughs bitterly.  “Forget about magical time loops, you’re deluded if you think nothing is wrong right now.”

“I had it-”

“No, you didn’t,” Rita snaps, decisive.

She meets his eyes, hollow and wrecked and haunted.  

The anger drains out of her voice.  “Look, this is all _really_ weird, and if I’m going to actually believe what you’re telling me then I am fucking _pissed_ that you were just playing along when I thought we were getting to know each other.”  

(Phil’s unsure whether to object or surrender.  He doesn’t have strength right now).

Rita pushes a fist into the couch cushion.  Phil’s not sure if she’s about to sock him one or cry.  “And godammit, I’m a fucking idiot because I _still_ can’t stop worrying about what the hell is going through that dense head of yours.”

“You don’t really want to know,” he mutters under his breath.

“For someone with a reputation as a narcissist, you may be the most self-deprecating person I’ve ever met.”

“Part of my charm.”

“Phil...please.”  (The word is quiet and heavy.  Phil can’t bear that this is Rita Hanson, strong enough to take on the world single handedly and win, and he’s the reason she’s reduced to _please_ ) _._  “You’re still not telling me something.  I mean it when I say I love you, but I can’t keep doing this forever.”

So here they are, back to the beginning, a reset.  Groundhog Day all over again.  

Phil's been backed into this corner for a long, long time.  Maybe the only way out is through.  Then again, he’s survived here for long enough on his own.

Rita puts her hand over his own, intertwines her fingers through his.

That’s what breaks him.

“I couldn’t get out of February 2nd in Punxsutawney.  No matter what I did.”  Phil pauses a moment, but Rita is waiting for him to continue.  He takes another breath and pushes onwards.

“I tried breaking into the police station and seeing if their radio was up so I could call for help - it didn’t work, not at long range.  I signed up for Scientology.  I stole every car in town that might have a chance in hell of making it through the snow.  None of it worked.”  He laughs.  “Don’t get me wrong, the whole thing was a blast for a while.  I lived the frat boy dream for _years._ Can you imagine a universe where you could do whatever you want without consequences?”

“When you put it like that it sounds like a good deal.”

Phil smiles sadly.  “It was, for a while.” He shakes his head.  “It got old.  And...it just didn’t end, there wasn’t a way _out_.”

He digs the digits of his left hand into the pliable couch fabric.  “You ever really think about what hell is?  Forget about burning or pitchforks or whatever, hell is when it doesn’t _stop_.  Ever.  I couldn’t even...” It’s funny how this has been so loud in his head, but unspoken outside of his mind.

“Couldn’t even what?”  

Phil doesn’t remember when he started moving towards the edge of this precipice.  Maybe it’s finally time to jump.  

Find out if he’ll fall or fly.

“The first time I held Buster at gunpoint, took Punxsutawney Phil, and shot him and then me in succession.”  He can’t, _won’t_ look up at her.  “And do you know what?  I fucking woke up in my bed at 6 AM the morning of Groundhog Day.” Phil’s laugh is sour. “But hey, you know how the saying goes, try, try, try until you get it right.”

“Phil-” He can’t deal with _pity_ right now, dammit.

“Tried jumping off of the goddam church a few times, hoping it would piss off You Know Who enough to just let me permanently shuffle off the mortal coil.  No go.”

Phil’s speech is getting more rapid, his voice louder.  “I tried a few slow ones, made sure I was conscious up until the very end and maybe that would do the trick.  Tried setting myself on fire - maybe if my body was completely destroyed it would end.  That was a long and fun one.  I couldn’t-” He can feel his throat tightening and his voice breaks off.

Small, fierce arms cut him off and tightly close around his chest like a lifeline.  It’s only then Phil realizes just how badly he needs this kind of touch from another human being, even as Rita’s grip threatens to cut off air.  Gradually, his pulse returns to its normal rhythm, his breathing slows.  He’s still either flying or falling, but the ground below him is becoming solid again.

“Just so you know, the being pissed off thing still applies,” Rita murmurs, not unkindly.

“Good,” he insists.  “I never got how...or why…” And isn't that the core of it?  That Phil has no fucking clue why Rita is here with him, instead of rightfully running for the hills?

“I still don’t understand what’s going on, not really.”  She laughs.  “Maybe you’re crazy, and I’m just as nuts for starting to believe you.”  Her right hand grips his side.  “But if it really happened, no one should have to remember-”

“It’s...it’s not even that,” he confesses.  “Sure, it’s not like dying was fun, it was more...I couldn’t make it stop.  For anyone who offs themselves and it sticks, I hope it at least _stops_ for...”

“Shh,” Rita whispers, leaning down to kiss his forehead.  Phil feels like he _should_ be annoyed right now.  He’s not a child, dammit, he doesn’t need to be coddled.  

The truth is this feels really, really nice.  

For a few moments, Phil allows himself to just accept Rita’s rubbing motions over his back.  The world spins a little less quickly than before.  Phil can’t say he feels _good_ , and he knows they can’t live in this moment forever anyway.  But Rita’s head is against his shoulder and he can breathe in the scent of her.  

Phil’s raw, jagged edges are out in full.  He’ll never be the person seen through Rita’s eyes, but nevertheless a weight has been lifted from him.

 

* * *

 

_A part of Phil wants to stop and commit everything he’s experiencing right now memory.  What it feels like for Rita’s hands to brush against his side as they slow dance.  The impact of the full force of her smile being directed at him._

_It’s been a long time since Phil’s experienced the sensation of things moving too quickly, but he’s given up on things like time and regrets.  Instead, he leads Rita by the hand to the so-called observation deck.  Points out the portapotties and Mark the accountant vomiting in the distance._

_(Somewhere in the distance, the clock chimes the hour as snow begins to fall.  There was another time with Rita when this sequence was significant, but Phil doesn’t remember.  It doesn’t matter now.)_

_“This is all really, really nice,” Rita breathes, voice full of wonder.  ‘Nice’ feels inadequate, but it captures the sentiment well enough._

_“It is beautiful,” he agrees.  Meets her gaze for a split second before panicking.  “Though it’s not entirely unexpected with this low pressure from the south-”_

_Without warning Rita’s hands are on the lapels of his jacket and she’s pulling him to her._

_Warm, soft lips press fiercely against his own._

_So this is what it feels like._

 

* * *

 

“So what was it like?”

“Hmm?” Phil pushes further back into the couch pillows, adjusting his position to allow Rita a more comfortable angle to rest her head against him.

“Dying.  You might be the first person who’s ever lived to tell the tale.  So to speak.”

Phil looks at Rita incredulously.  “You sure you want the spoilers?”

“You know me, I don’t start anything on Netflix unless I know whether or not the dog dies.”

“Honestly?  Really anti-climactic.”  This gets a laugh out of Rita.  “Maybe it hurts for a while if it’s a slow one, or maybe you’re woozy on the way out, but in the end you’re just not there.  Which given that everyone - me included - is the center of their own life, is kind of a let-down.  Sorry, I know you were raised Christian and all, I hope this doesn’t shatter your worldview.”

Rita dismisses the idea with a wave of her hand.  “Dunno what I think of God these days, but it’s all in a magical time loop anyway - not sure if it would even apply.”

“I guess that’s true.”  It’s really weird to be talking about all of this with another human being.  But now that Phil’s doing it, it feels good.

She traces slow fingers over his knee.  “So what changed?  When I saw you on the Groundhog Day that I remember, you weren’t acting like you just finished a suicide binge.”

“Um...well…” Phil turns so they’re facing and he can cup a hand to the side of Rita's face.  No matter what happens now, Rita Hanson will continue to exist in the world.  Just knowing that was enough before.  It has to be enough now.  “It was you.”

She blinks.  “Me?”

“I um…long story short, one day you asked me what was wrong and I announced that I was a god.  I know it sounds stupid, but I was in a bad place.”

“Hey, not judging.” She squeezes his hand.  “But you’re not a god.”

Phil laughs.  “Well, probably not.”  Rita punches him in the arm.  “Ow!  I um...told you what was happening to me, and by that point I had the evidence to prove it.”

“And what did I do?”

“I don’t think you actually believed me, at least not literally.  But...you were really kind, even though I had treated you like shit the one other time we met.  You spent the rest of the day with me.  Forced me to do something other than be miserable and feel sorry for myself.  Told me about all the things you would do with infinite chances.”

Rita lazily weaves a finger through his hair.  “Like what?”

“Learn stuff.  Run up hills.  Punch all the asshole guys out there.”

“Yeah, that’s still spooky.” Rita says under her breath.

Phil’s lips curl into a smile at the memory.  “You told me I was lucky for getting the chance.”

“Getting to flip off whoever you want doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Rita Hanson, covert optimist.”

“Hey, I’ll keep your secrets, Connors, but you have to keep mine.”

Phil laughs.  “The whole thing should've just pissed me off, but the thing is...even though you didn’t remember anything the next day...things changed.”

She squeezes his hand.  “Yeah?”

“I...started doing things differently.  Started changing.”  At least for a while, he adds in his head.  “Was still stuck in a never-ending time loop.  Don’t get me wrong, that part still _sucked_ , but…it was like I could look at it through your point of view.  Just a little.”  

Phil meets Rita’s gaze.  The brightness within her eyes will never cease to amaze him.  

“I tried softening up on people.  Weirdly enough they open up to you when you do that.  I started taking piano lessons and learning how to carve ice sculptures and cook chili. Realized I actually _like_ reading.  Wasn’t exactly the life I was aiming for, but it wasn’t hell and that was a fucking improvement.”

“I never told you about it again, but you still called me on my shit plenty of times.  Kept me grounded, were kind even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“Someone had to be there to knock you down a peg,” Rita insists, but her voice is gentle.  

Phil still doesn’t know who he would have become by now if she wasn’t.  “I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t there.”

“That’s not-”

“The whole being a god thing sounds stupid now, but that was actually where my brain was.  It scares the shit out of me where it could have gone.  Look, I know I was an asshole before all of this, but I’d like to think I wasn’t on the verge of turning into a psychopath.  I don’t know what-”

“Does it matter?” Rita asks.

Phil takes a breath, allows himself to depart from that train of thought.  Whether or not it mattered then is water under the bridge, but the way things are going these days, maybe it still does.  How far he’s capable of sinking, even if just back to the person he wants to think he left behind.  “I'm not the guy you think I am.”

“Well, I now know you’re a reformed groundhog murderer and bank robber, am I missing anything else?”

Phil scoffs.  “For one, I’m fucked up six ways to Sunday.”

“Maybe,” Rita offers.  “But I’ve met worse.  Dated worse, even.”

He raises an eyebrow.  “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“Take it or leave it.”

Phil shrugs.  “You’re smart, so I _really_ don’t get how you don’t see past my bullshit.  I’m faking it, Rita.  And not even well most of the time.”  

“Oh, I see your bullshit, and I feel a-okay with calling you on it.  And what would not faking it even look like?”

His hand drops to his side.  “In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t exactly have deep relationships before all of this.  95% of my closest friends are people who have known me for 48 hours, tops.”

“So you taking out Larry for drinks when he was freaking out his girlfriend would dump him, that’s not friendship?”

“Hey, he was determined to drown his sorrow in beer and tacos.  Someone needed to make sure he didn’t get in the car smashed or get food poisoning, or we’d have a union lawsuit.”

Rita’s not buying it.  “And waking up at 2 to the morning to drive to Columbus on my family emergency, that's not really you either?”

“What else was I supposed to do, you looked like you could barely operate your phone, let alone a moving vehicle.”  Phil exhales.  “I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.  You would have gotten an Uber without me, I didn't do much other than be the awkward white guy in the way of everything.”

“Okay, _that_ is bullshit.”

“Rita, I'm not good at any of this.  On a good day I do a passable job at pretending.”

Rita sighs in frustration, but there’s compassion in her expression.  “I don’t get how you can be one of the smartest people I know and so completely _dense_.  What exactly do you think the rest of us are doing?”

“At the very least, a _much_ better job at faking the whole functional human thing.”

She cups his face with her hand.  “That’s all anyone is doing.  I promise.  Me included.  I'm glad to know I was able to help you, but please don't delude yourself into thinking I'm a saint.”

He snorts.  “Not with the way you drive.”

“I’ll have you know I use the horn as a courtesy to my fellow drivers.  Look, I take it that it took a while for you to learn how to deliver babies and catch falling cats?”

“Yup.”

“Look, don’t get me wrong, that sounds like a better use of eternity than crossing every woman in Punxsutawney off your list.  And yeah, it made me think twice about you.  But the reason we’re still doing this,” Rita gestures to the two of them. “Isn’t because I expect you to be a miracle worker.”

Phil smiles glumly.  “I don’t think I’m even hitting the decent human being mark. I really thought I had gotten over myself - learned how to be nicer and more zen and less of a prick.  I fucked that up good today.  Did you know you made one of the interns cry?”

“Yeah, that’s how I knew something was really up.  I told her you just got bad news about your mom.  Now Ellen’s really worried about you and she are Ben are talking about making you lasagna.”

“Wait, bad news about my mom?  Let me guess, you gave her a heart attack.”

Rita smirks.  “Something like that.  Look, I didn’t kill her.  Yes, you’ve been acting like an ass the last few days, but that doesn't mean you've fallen off the wagon for good."  She looks up at him.  "If it makes you feel any better, there’s a theory going around the office that you were replaced by a Russian operative after Groundhog Day.”

Phil can’t help clenching his fist letting out a quiet, “Yes~~!”  Rita gives him a look.  “Sorry, I always wondered about that - really glad it was something good.”

“Look, I didn’t know you before Groundhog Day.  Not really.  But I get the impression you’re still you.  Just...wiser and kinder.  Maybe knocked down a few pegs.  And yes, you’re still annoyingly stubborn and stuck on macho “I can handle everything” bullshit and rely too much on sarcasm as a response to everything."

“Thank you?”

“I’m just saying, it’s not all mutually exclusive.  Don’t get me wrong, Phil, you’re _very_ far from perfect, but give yourself a little more credit.  You’re human.”

“Yeah, the whole mortality thing feels weird sometimes.”

“You wanna go back to living in Groundhog Day?” Rita asks.

Sometimes he thinks it would be easier, to be back in a time with no consequences.  “Nah, done with that one," he decides.  "Mostly I just feel _old._ ”  A sheepish expression passes over his face.  “I’m serious when when I say I don’t know how long it was, but I’d give it a few decades, give or take.”  He looks down at his hands, firm and strong and belonging to a man still in his prime.  “And it’s not like I’m looking forward to getting AARP mail, but I don’t even _look_ different.”

Rita bats a hand at him.  “Congratulations, you’re officially the first celebrity I’ve heard of who’s bitter about looking too young.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sure.  But most people get the opposite.  It takes them their whole lives to get over themselves.  Then they’re old and out of time.”

“You know, I could’ve done with skipping that part.  What it took to get there.”

Rita scoffs. “I don’t think you could’ve.”

Phil rolls his eyes in defeat.  “For the record I don’t enjoy it when you’re right.”

“So, one thing you still haven’t explained.”

“Yeah?”

“How did you get out?  Like, we’re here now, so I’m assuming that means you’re no longer in a time loop.”  Her eyes shift nervously.  “I hope.”

And there’s the rub.  “The thing is I don’t actually know.  That morning it just...stopped.”

“Was it my magical healing vag-ow!” Rita laughs as Phil elbows her side.

“ _Please_ never say that phrase again.”

“I dunno, it’s kind of a confidence boost to know that I screwed you - in the _happy_ sense - out of a magical curse.”

“I never realized women were into bragging.”  

“I’m usually not, but that’s a pretty good confidence booster if it’s true.”

“You’re a chick, I always thought you’d be more into the idea of it being a kiss or something.”

Rita lets out a snort.  “Waaaaay too sappy for me.  Mind blowing, curse breaking sex or no go.”

“Could’ve been.  Or maybe the Groundhog God or whoever else is up there decided I’d learned my lesson.  Or the glitch in the universe finally stopped.  Or the whole thing was some alien’s joke and they got bored.”

He’ll never know, and the fact that he won’t will never stop feeling like a knife to the gut.  But Phil doesn’t remember feeling this light since...well, February 3rd.  

There are words lodged in his throat finally ready to come out.  

“I love you too, you know.  I’m sorry I couldn’t say it until now.  It felt too much like…”  Fuck it, it doesn’t matter any more.  He trails his fingers softly through her hair.  

“Well, that took you long enough.”  Rita smiles, but she can’t completely hide the hurt behind her expression.  Phil hates that he’s the cause of it, but maybe it’s time to move on from that.  So instead he brushes a kiss against her mouth.

“Rita, I’ve been in love with you since…” He laughs.  “God, I don’t even know, just that it’s been a very long time.  Every time I look at you, you make me _want_ to do better.  I don’t think I’ve ever met a human being like you - don’t think it’s possible.  Just knowing you _existed_ kept me sane.”

The words rush out, finally freed, and Phil wants badly to continue in that freefall.  Something in Rita’s expression stops him.  She closes a hand over his.  “Phil, I think I could get over the fact that you lied about starting off with the upper hand, and that some of your shit is seriously weird.”  

Phil waits for the other shoe to drop.  

“And it’s...an honor, really, to know that I helped you get through it all.  I’m really glad to could be there for you.  But I don’t know if I’m ready to be the love of your life.”

Phil’s heart sinks, but Rita continues.  “At least not yet.”

Well, he can work with that.  “That’s not what I’m asking for.”  And the truth is, he accepted a very long time ago that Rita didn’t _owe_ him anything.  But if they have a  chance in hell, then Phil wants desperately to see if they have a shot at making this work.

“So what are you looking for?”

Phil is _okay_ now - he has been since February 2nd ended, really.  The baggage is just part of the ride.  But he wants more than okay.  Or at least to try.  “Look, I didn’t mean to scare you off-.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, and it’s a hell of a lot better than you being emotionally stunted about saying I love you back.  I’m just not sure if I'm ready for...”

“Couldn’t we just, you know, continue dating?  See where this goes?  That’s all I’m asking, I promise.”

Rita nods slowly.  “Can't say that takes off the pressure completely.”  Then she breaks into a small, sly smile, and the crease in her nose is out full force.  "But I'm not done with you yet, Phil Connors."

Phil can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, nor how he kisses her swiftly and fiercely.

Rita breaks apart before he can get too enthusiastic.  “I have one condition.”  

“Name it.” The scope of his permission may be grand, but he’s willing to tattoo a groundhog to his forehead if that’s what it’ll take for this to work.

“You need to get some help.”

Oh.  

Phil raises a dubious eyebrow.  “You mean like a shrink.”

“Well, I hear the politically correct term is therapist.”

Phil shakes his head.  “Look, I get what you're saying, but...exactly what mental health professional am I supposed to talk to about my experiences literally dying and my deja vu phobia?”

“Not gonna lie, you're probably going to have to come up with something.”  Rita shrugs.  “Make it about the times you almost jumped off of a church or whatever.  But there’s stuff out there other than just talk therapy.  Like there’s this thing with desensitizing eye movement that works with vets and traumatic experiences.”

“Sounds pretty woo to me.”

“There’s proven science behind it, I promise.”

“So why is it I'm not allowed to call them shrinks?” Phil asks again. But the truth is that in exchange for getting a continued chance to be with Rita, he could do worse than a few (expensive) hours of the roundabout.  “I'll look into seeing somebody.  I promise.”

“Good.”  She kisses his forehead, and Phil can’t help the warmth that spreads through him.  “It’s funny, I kind of feel like I’m meeting the real you for the first time.”

“And who is that exactly?”

“Mmm...weatherman, morning grouch when denied coffee.”  She traces a finger along his neck.  “Wannabe philosopher, musician, former immortal.”

“You make it sound a lot nobler than it is.  You’re talking to the guy who jacked off seven times in a night out of boredom.”

“I’m going to hold you to that the next time you say you’re too tired.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Phil laughs.  “You’re insulting my honor here.”

Rita bites her lip playfully.  “You saying you wanna get out of here?”

Phil grins.  “In that I want to do the mandatory makeup sex somewhere other than the office?  Yes.”

The blood rushes to Phil’s head as he stands up, but this feeling of lightheadedness comes from something else.  He catches Rita’s hand.  “I love you,” he says again.

“I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

Later, the world goes still.  Slowly comes back into focus.  Phil lets his head drop to the pillow, the last of the day’s intensity finally released.

Rita scoots over so that her chest is pressed against his back.  “That was nice,” she sighs.

Phil snorts.  “Nice?  That’s all I get?”

“Take it or leave it.” Phil’s mouth curls into a smile, and Rita presses a kiss to his shoulder.  

She traces a finger over the spot on Phil’s neck where a bruise is beginning to form.  “Sorry if you have to wear turtlenecks for the rest of August.”

Phil dismisses the idea.  “It’s fine, I figured the Associate Producer doesn’t have much to do, might as well make her get me water to keep her bus-” Rita rolls over to the other side of the bed in mock annoyance.  “Hey!” Phil laughs, trying to pull her over.  “If I let you in on a secret, will you come back?”

“Maaaaybe.”

With any luck the lighting is low enough to conceal the blush spreading over his face.  “Um, I kind of like it.”

Rita turns back over to face him.  She has that self-satisfied look on her face.  “Yeah?”

“I um...like seeing it in the mirror.  Reminds me that yesterday really happened.  That you’re really here.”

Rita brushes gentle fingertips over his cheek.  “I am.  Promise,” she says softly.  

Before he can get too wrapped up in thinking through that particular miracle, Rita lowers her head to skim her tongue over that tender place on his neck, yanking his thoughts in an entirely _different_ direction.  “Could always prove it to you, though.”  

Phil sits up.  “I don’t know about you, but I’m actually not that tired.”

“What, now you’re superhuman in addition to being the world’s youngest-looking octogenarian?”

Phil leans down to kiss the sensitive place on Rita’s collarbone.  Lets his fingers skim over her stomach before dipping his head lower.  “No, but I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, almost at the end of this thing! Just one more part to wrap things up.
> 
> Thanks to ventrie, who has given me guidance along the way.
> 
> Comments and constructive feedback are always very appreciated.
> 
> The reference about Phil reading one page per day of each book on the shelf at the B&B comes from Danny Rubin's first draft of the Groundhog Day movie script. (In that version, Phil actually gets to the end of the bookshelf, poor guy). It's available in Danny Rubin's wonderful ebook How to Write Groundhog Day.
> 
> I asked a friend (who is both a licensed therapist AND a nerd) about how someone with a supernatural traumatic experience could get help from a mental health professional (without the therapist assuming they're crazy). She said there were modalities other than pure talk therapy, and said Phil could probably make use of something like DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy) and EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), the latter of which Rita refers to. There actually is proven science behind both, so hopefully poor Phil actually has a shot in getting some help.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at http://matataku-hoshi.tumblr.com/


	7. Chapter 7

“So...The Wind in the Willows,” Rita throws out once they reach the two mile mark and slow to a walk.

“Read it in Punxsutawney.”  Phil would like to think he's getting better at cardiovascular fitness, but he's winded and getting the words out takes more effort than he’d like to admit.  Still, it’s good to be outside.  To feel the sun against his skin.

“Yeah?”

He shrugs.  “You kept going on about how great it was and how it just gets dismissed as a children's tale.”

Rita stretches an elbow behind her back.  If she's freaked out that Phil is referencing conversations that never happened, she's doing a good job of hiding it.  “You're not wrong.  So what did you think?”

“Not the kind of thing I'd usually pick up on my own, but...”  

Rita smirks.  “And…?”

“By the end I got really invested in what happened to Toad.”

Rita plops down on the grass.  “You ever consider a resemblance there?”

Phil gives her a look of mock annoyance.  “Feel lucky I'm too tired to move.”

“Okay, and Golden Girls?”

Phil looks down at his feet.  “Um.”

Rita clucks her tongue in approval.  “Let me guess, Debbie had the entire thing on DVD and you would crash her anniversary with Fred to watch.”

“I’d like to think their anniversary was _improved_ when Grand Theft Auto and yours truly were added into the mix.”

“Not buying it,” Rita says, but her tone is playful.

Phil joins her on the grass.  ”Hey, they were always excited to have me, and I brought good weed.”

“You got Fred and Debbie high on their anniversary.”

“I provided the _optional_ supplies, but no one did anything they didn't want, I promise.”

Rita snorts.  “Sorry, just imagining you and Debbie and Fred getting high with Bea Arthur.”

“Oh, that's not why I know Golden Girls.”

Rita waits, a smile playing across her features.  Phil shakes his head.  “Um...my grandma always had it on when we were over.  She died when I was 13 and you know my folks were dysfunctional as fuck, but she was actually cool.  So even if the show was kind of corny I associate it with her. They would play late night reruns when I was in college.  I um, used to turn it on when I couldn't sleep.”

Phil looks at her with all the seriousness he can muster.  “Do not tell a soul.”

Rita just claps him on the back before leaning back into the grass as she stretches a knee to her chest.  She doesn’t say ‘I don’t watch to hear you bitch later when you’re sore’ in so many words, but the look on her face communicates it all the same.  Phil rolls his eyes and copies her position, ignoring the fact that (per usual) it makes her look hot and him ridiculous.

Maybe they can do this after all.

 

* * *

 

Phil does his best to ignore the office whispers the week before his 42nd birthday.  When his own birthday card gets passed to him by accident, he smirks and gives it to the next sucker.

The Friday before Phil walks into the staff kitchen just as Larry is surreptitiously unloading grocery bags.  “You're not supposed to see this,” he grumbles.  Phil spots the edge of a cardboard grocery store cake box.

“See what?” Phil replies, walking past Larry to the staff fridge.  He can’t help but sneak a glance back.

There was a time when he didn't understand how this much plastic processed sugar was supposed to be something _nice_ for the recipient.  Phil’s taste in cake hasn't changed, but he doesn't mind any more.  He’s pretty sure this is the first time anyone at Channel Five has remembered his birthday, let alone done anything about it.

“Did Rita put you up to this...thing that I’m definitely _not_ seeing?”

Larry grins sheepishly.  “Nah, it's from the rest of us.  Rita said she had something at home for you.  Which I do _not_ want to know anything about.”

Phil smirks.  “Trust me, we’re not that exciting.”  He can't help the affection that seeps into his voice.

“She did insist on the writing, though.”

Phil can't help himself, and flips back the cardboard top.  The inscription is written in blue, glittering frosting.

Forecaster Phil - Happy 42nd - 80?ish Birthday!

“That an in joke between you guys?”

Phil shakes his head, but his grin spreads across his whole face.  “Yeah, something like that.”

Forget what he said before - cake is fucking _awesome_.

 

* * *

 

 

Most of the time everything is fine.  Phil hadn’t realized the weight of what he carried until it was gone.  He feels lighter for it now.  It’s just so much easier to talk with Rita when he doesn’t have to cut out a multi-decade period of his life.

But sometimes the universe and his brain just won’t leave him alone.  Maybe it’s the idea that he’s actually going to have a birthday tomorrow.  Or the lingering fear that he’s going to fall asleep next to Rita and wake up alone in Mrs. Lancaster’s bed and breakfast.  Or the way he can't help but flinch as trains come by.  Or how he has to be careful with every word that comes out of his mouth, because it’s just so _easy_ to slip up and say something he doesn’t mean when he’s irritated.

Or maybe it's leftover from something long before eternity started and abruptly came to a stop.  

Phil’s been staring at the ceiling for an hour and a half now with no relief in sight.  The mistakes of today and the worries of tomorrow scatter and multiply.  He replays conversations from today, from when he was a kid, and even a few that didn’t actually happen in this reality.  

If anything, the feeling that he’s going to burst out of his own skin is just getting worse.  He’s supposed to be over this.  This whole losing sleep thing is getting _old._

Phil makes himself do the exercise from his shrink where he counts to five with each inhale, then ten.  Forces himself to focus on the tension in his body, and then release it.  It's cheesy as hell, but something must be happening because at least the tightness in his chest is going away.

“You okay?” Rita murmurs, half awake.

He gives her hand a squeeze.  “It’s nothing.  Go back to sleep.”

“Kay.”

Phil gives up on sleep for now.  He gets through a chapter of his latest book on his phone, but eventually his eyes start hurting from trying to read in the dark. Finally he heads to Rita’s living room and turns on the TV.  Now that he’s actively looking for it, there has to be _something_ mindless on.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Rita asks from the entryway.

This is where he changes the topic.  Makes up an excuse to leave the room.  It’s not like talking about this stuff has become appealing.  Whatever it is.

He owes Rita more than that.

Phil mutes the TV.  “I’m not sure.” He meets Rita’s skeptical gaze head on.  Somehow the pink and black polka dot socks make her look _more_ intimidating.  “I promise I’m not bullshitting you, I don’t actually know and I just can’t sleep.  I'm fine, really, I just need a minute.”

She nods curtly.  “You want company?”

No way in hell.  Probably not.  Maybe.  “There’s no point in us both being exhausted tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?  This infomercial is about to end on a cliffhanger, no way in hell I'm letting you get to the ending before me.”

The corners of Phil’s mouth quirk upwards.  “Well in that case…”

Some days he misses the comfort of knowing there was no way he could permanently fuck up.  But the truth is the things within a fifteen foot radius have a greater pull.  Namely, the greasy takeout leftovers sitting in the fridge, and the woman in rabbit print pajamas sprawling her legs over him.

Phil doesn't know how he ever lived without the touch of another human being.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil wakes to the sound of his phone going off.  He opens his phone to a “Happy Birthday!” bitmoji from his sister.  He rolls his eyes affectionately.

Careful not to wake Rita, Phil dresses and steps onto the balcony.  He’s about to hit dial when he sees another name underneath Margaret’s - one that he programmed into his phone early last February and has never had the guts to dial.  Why the hell not.

It only takes one ring.  “Hey, Phil!” Ned’s voice greets cheerily.

“Uh, Ned!  How did you know it was me?”

“Well you see, I get caller ID ever since I signed up for this new phone service, since we’re both in partnership with...”  

The prattle is familiar, comforting.  But Phil knows from experience that this level of rambling usually means that Ned’s nervous about something.  Phil prods gingerly until Ned finally admits that he _really_ likes this woman he went out with last week, and that unexpected fact makes the second date a thousand times more terrifying.  

“You realize I’m the last person to be giving advice on romance,” Phil cautions after Ned asks what he would do.

“Aww c’mon, Phil, it sounds like you’re still with your producer friend.”  Producer friend.  Phil will never understand how he and Ned graduated in the same year, and yet Ned has the sensibility of a baby boomer.  But these days he finds it more endearing than anything else.  “You can’t be that bad.”

Phil gives a small smile.  “Maybe not.”

They spend the next half an hour catching up about old high school classmates and the latest Punxsutawney gossip.  There’s a new coffee bar that’s coming in that’s creating some very divided opinions around town.  Phil for his part is amazed at how quickly everything has _changed_.  It’s hard to think of Punxsutawney as only a place, lacking a fixed dimension of time.

Ned never tells him he should visit sometime.  Phil never offers.  

Phil does realize that Ned has no memory of their many conversations on February 2nd.  Maybe he knows anyway.

Finally Ned has to get the kids ready for school and Phil has to get on with his day.  “It’s really good to hear your voice,” Phil says before they hang up.

“You too, Phil.”

Phil hits the end call button, and scrolls up to his sister’s name.

From inside, he can hear Rita singing Purple Rain in the shower.

 

* * *

 

By Phil’s request, evening birthday celebrations are kept to a low-key affair with just the two of them.  Rita gets them takeout from the so-called best sandwich place in Pittsburgh and they smuggle canned beer in brown bags into one of the local parks.  This is never what he thought he’d be doing in his 40s.  He’s not complaining.

Phil examines at the side of the can.  He’s not sure what language it’s in.  “Do you have any idea what this is?”

“Nope,” Rita replies.  “Figured it would be an adventure.”

Phil pops the tab and takes a sip.  For a mystery beer, it’s surprisingly refreshing.  “You know, they really know how to make beer in Korea.”

“I think that’s Japanese, Phil.”

He looks at the writing again.  It’s probably disrespectful to Mediterraneans to say it’s all Greek to him.  “Huh.”

Rita passes Phil his sandwich.  “So this is really the first time you've had Primanti Brothers?”

“Yup,” Phil admits.  The truth is he's avoided the place for years, hating on instinct anything that could be labeled a tourist trap.

“And…?”

He takes a bite.  Juicy roast beef.  Perfectly crunched bread.  Pickles that stand on the raiser’s edge between sweet and sour.  “Doesn't measure up to a Philly Cheesesteak, but it's not bad,”

“You've lived here for what, 15 years, where is your Pittsburgh pride?”

“Says the girl who lived in Columbus until three years ago?”  Phil fixes Rita with a look.  “C'mon, I'm from Cleveland, don't I have a moral and obligation to give this city shit?”

“Just shut up and eat your sandwich, you ingrate.”

Phil tries one of her fries.  Bites down, and then immediately grabs another handful.  “Okay, these are _really_ good.”

“You asshole!” Rita shrieks as she tries to grab her fries back.  Phil’s too quick.  “I asked if you wanted your own order and you said no.”

“Isn’t it a rule that I’m entitled to half of your fries?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.  I _never_ agreed to that clause.”

Phil pretends to consider an idea.  “I would consider a renegotiation.  But that means from now on any popcorn is mine and mine only.”

Rita’s glare shoots daggers.  She offers him a fry and turns the other way in feigned annoyance.  “I’m only letting you get away with this because it’s your birthday.”

Phil gives the full force of his patented weatherman smile.  “You like me.”

“Against my better judgment,” Rita snorts.  Phil wraps his free arm around Rita’s shoulder, and she leans into him.  

Even with time in Punxsutawney notwithstanding, it’s been a long time since Phil has been in this place with a girl.  Where the conversation can go quiet and he doesn’t feel the need to fill the space.  It feels good.  Comfortable.

The sky slowly fades from a dull blue to brilliant orange.  The light hits the scattered clouds like smoke, billowing out like coral as it dissipates and fades.  The first stars glimmer into view.

“It wasn’t anything like this, you know,” Phil says quietly.

“Yeah?” she asks.

Phil smiles.  “This is...”

He doesn’t know how to complete that sentence.  Better is inadequate.  But this is certainly something.

Rita leans her head against him.  “Yeah.”

Language is overrated.

 

* * *

 

Months pass.  Time marches on, in the correct direction no less.  The first snowfall hits in early November.  Phil reminds himself that this won’t last forever.

Instead Phil forecasts the weather and reads and plays piano.  He and Rita talk philosophy over late night walks and watch B-grade movies.  They fight over dumb shit, and not so dumb shit.

For reasons Phil still can’t fathom, they usually find a way to work it out.  Phil’s not used to sticking around when things with a girl get awkward or irritating.  But even when Rita is driving him up a wall and he’s ready to scream, he’s still amazed by the fact that she stays.  Not unconditionally, and with no promises of forever, but she hasn’t walked away yet.  

That’s still fucking awesome.

Phil has a much better experience meeting the Hansons for the second time at Thanksgiving. Mrs. Hanson is more lucid in some moments than others, but she’s there for enough of it.  For the first time Phil sees firsthand the unwavering strictness and the fierce love.  He feels like he understands Rita a little more.

For Christmas, Phil gets Rita a few books and a handcrafted leather journal.  Rita gives him a card with the name of a local piano teacher and tells him she’s pre-paid the first month, so he now has no excuse for putting off taking lessons again.

It’s a Monday in January when Rita slams open his office door.  

“This was _not_ supposed to happen,” she pants, out of breath and furious.

Phil rises from his chair and moves to her as quickly as he can manage.  “Rita, calm down, what’s-”

She fists the fabric of his jacket.  “I wouldn’t do this to you, goddammit I promised you I wouldn’t let them-”

“Rita, what-”

Words rush out.  “Open your e-mail.”

Phil clicks on the blinking notification.  His eyes scan over the text.  “Why are you so upset about the new policy on web browsers?”

Rita rolls her eyes and manhandles the mouse away from him.  She clicks on the next message.

FEBRUARY REMOTE SCHEDULE ASSIGNMENTS.  Phil’s listed as on-call for school closures next week, plus something at one of the local ice rinks.  And then-

“Oh.”  

It’s funny.  He’s known very well that February 2nd is coming up soon.  For better or worse he’ll always be tethered to that day.  Phil’s just never really considered the idea that he’d be put on the same assignment again.  

Exact same place, exact same day, exact same circumstance. Some people would call that deja vu.  

He expects cortisol and panic to start flooding his brain any second now.  The thing is that once reality breaks on you, it doesn’t matter if it’s a one time occurrence.  The possibility is in the back of your mind, always.  Phil’s accepted the reality that he will always have to triple check the date.  Will always leave the items on his nightstand in slightly different positions every night.  

But when Phil considers returning to Punxsutawney on Groundhog Day, he’s filled with the desperate sensation of _home_.  Maybe not a place where he can stay forever.  And it’ll always be home-slash-former prison, but the truth is he’s just as much a Punxsutawney native as any of the locals.  Maybe it’s time for the prodigal son to at least stop in for a visit.

He puts a hand on Rita’s arm and smiles.  “You know, I think I’m actually okay.”  

The anger has drained out of Rita’s voice, replaced by concern.  “Phil, you don’t have to-”

“No, I…”  Phil laughs at the absurdity of the situation, but there’s no bitterness now.  “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I actually _want_ to.”  He meets her gaze with trepidation, because he will never stop being amazed and astounded that she _wants_ to be with him.  “Just...come with me?”

Rita takes his hand.  Interlocks her fingers over his and slowly brings the back of his palm to her lips.  “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I (once again) lied and decided to do the epilogue as a separate part. But then I really am done!
> 
> This story is a labor of love that takes up waaay too much of my free time, so comments are always appreciate.
> 
> Thank you to the Groundhog Day Discord group for fielding my random questions about stuff like what Phil would get Rita for Christmas.
> 
> The idea of Phil crashing Fred and Debbie's anniversary was inspired by this comic: https://ask-philconnors.tumblr.com/post/164584101559/what-do-you-think-of-fred-and-debbie The entire blog is hilarious, and I recommend you check it out!


	8. Chapter 8

February 1st is an ordinary day.  Phil tries not to perform every routine action as if it could be for the last time.  Waving to the postal worker.  Tasting coffee from his favorite spot.  Idle chatter with coworkers about weekend plans.

Sometimes it works.  

Around lunch Rita catches him scrutinizing the sushi menu with the intensity of a man choosing his last meal.  She puts a warm hand over his, because really, minimizing PDAs or not, it's not like they're fooling anyone at the office these days.  Phil wonders if he could pinpoint the moment in time when his co-workers stopped silently accusing him of taking advantage of Rita and started inviting him to their football potlucks.  He never thought he’d be grateful for it.

“We don't have to do this,” she reminds him again.  “I promise I will help you fake a case of the measles if you want.”

Phil brings her palm to his lips and presses a smile-shaped kiss to it.  “That may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

A smirk, underlined with concern and genuine love, plays across Rita’s mouth.  “I’m being serious.”

Gratitude wells in Phil’s chest, even as fear quietly presses against his heart.  “I know.”

He can’t meet her gaze.

 

* * *

 

By early evening, Phil's carefully cultivated sense of zen is gone.  In its place is slowly creeping dread.

It's one thing to think of Groundhog Day in Punxsutawney in the abstract.  Isn't Phil's shrink always going on about taking small steps to normalize the things that scare him?  

It's another thing to face the possibility that he'll never again eat Mexican food.  Or see his sister.  Or sleep in his own bed.

This is ridiculous.  Phil's been out for nearly a year now.  He's already learned whatever lesson he was supposed to get out of his trial.  The date ultimately doesn’t _mean_ anything.  He can do this.  He genuinely cares about and desperately wants to see this town and its people.  And Rita will be with him, he won't be alone even if history does-

The thought is too cloying to finish.

Maybe the Groundhog God doesn't give a shit if he's a different man from this time last year.  The whole thing was probably a joke to him anyway - maybe it would be hilarious to give it another go, to watch Phil grind everything he's cultivated to dust.

Phil is grateful for this past year’s probation.  Maybe he shouldn’t expect it to last.

They start the drive to Punxsutawney a little before 9 PM.  

Phil’s argument for leaving late has something to do with traffic.  The real truth is if they arrive too early, Phil knows he’ll spend the rest of the evening envisioning different ways to escape.  If history is going to repeat itself, Phil wants it over and done with.  

He feels like he might hurl.

The car door shuts.  The sensation passes.  

They're on their way.

Phil's unsure how to identify the point if no return.  When Rita starts the car?  Before they get on the highway, when Phil could still pull open the passenger side door and make a leaping run to freedom?  Or when the “Welcome to Punxsutawney!” sign comes up in the distance?

But Phil doesn’t jump out of the car, nor does he take off at a run when they stop off for gas in Kittaning.  

He considers both possibilities.

Instead, Phil keeps his gaze fixed ahead and digs his fingernails into Rita’s passenger seat upholstery hard enough that the fabric shows marks even after he softens his grip.  Smoothing it over gets rid of the effect.  Mostly.  

“You’re awfully quiet,” Rita remarks.  The look in her eyes conveys something more.

Phil shrugs and forces nonchalance that he doesn’t feel.  “Just tired.”

Rita doesn't say anything.

The Pittsburgh radio stations drop out one by one, until even NPR gives up the ghost to static.

36 miles to Punxsutawney.

The car heater makes a high-pitched, keening noise akin to a dying mosquito.  It dies down, and then rises up again.  Rita smacks at the dashboard.  The pitch goes higher.  “I told you it was fine if we took my car.” The fact that Phil knows it's a pithy thing to say doesn't stop him.

“And I told you that I know what the problem is, and that I have an appointment on Monday.” Rita doesn’t look up from the road.

Maybe he won't get stuck in Punxsutawney this round.  Maybe this time he'll be sentenced to the four sides of Rita's Honda Civic, and he'll spend the rest of eternity passing signs for farm stands and liquor stores.

The heater's keening has moved from “dying mosquito” to “dying mosquito raking its nails on a chalkboard.”  Phil’s no longer sure if 30 miles is the distance to his final judgment or if his head will explode long before they get there.  He smacks the dashboard so hard that Rita’s glove compartment flies open.

“Fuck, sorry I-”

Rita slows down.  “I can pull over.”

Phil makes himself exhale and begins the process of cleaning up the mess on the floor.  He gets keeping the car registration in the glove compartment.  But surely Rita doesn't still need her DMV paperwork from 2008.  Not to mention receipts for everything she's ever bought since getting her driver's license.  

For God's sake none of this is _Rita's_ fault.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.

“It’s fine, sorry about-” Phil's hand catches on the sharp edge of a soda can tab.  “Goddamnit!”  An small, angry pink line appears near his pointer finger.

“Jesus, is that bleeding?”

Again, Phil forces himself to inhale oxygen and not say anything he'll regret 10 seconds from now.  His hand is in fact not bleeding - it's actually not bad.  Regardless, Phil is reminded of the way he feels when he gets hit by a car door: personally offended by the universe and 99% of its inhabitants. “It’s just a scratch.  Promise.”

“Look, there’s an exit in a few miles, we could stop and-”

Rita makes a sudden swerve into the right lane to avoid an overly aggressive Prius.

“Jesus, would you watch where you’re going?”

The soccer mom van in the right lane slams down on the horn. “Some of us are actually trying to drive here.  Am I getting off or not?” Rita asks, voice raised and gesturing emphatically towards the exit.

“I told you, it’s fine.”

“If you're bleeding you need to-”

In the back of his mind, Phil can appreciate that Rita means well.  But he has enough going through his brain at the moment without his girlfriend freaking out over the equivalent of a paper cut.  “For fuck’s sake I’m not bleeding, so could you stop treating me with kid gloves?”

The heater makes another high pitched wailing sound.  “Well, you look like shit.  And you haven’t said more than two words strung together since we got on the 28.”

The problem is she’s not _wrong_.

Inhale.  Exhale.  Repeat.  If nothing else, it usually delays him putting his foot in his mouth.  “Okay, what exactly do you want to talk about?” Phil tries for reasonable.  “I get it, you’re the one driving, it’s late, we should have started-”

She gives him a patented Rita Hanson ‘are you fucking kidding me’ look.  “Are you trying to be obtuse?”

“Can we just pretend this is a normal assignment?  It’s not like-”

“It’s not.” Rita doesn’t back down.  “You know it, I know it.  And I gotta be honest, I'm kind of scared shitless you’re going to jump out the car door-” Okay, that is _not_ fair, and she has to know that.  But Rita isn’t stopping.  “So would you please just-”

Phil can't help the heavy sigh of exasperation.  “For _once_ could I get a day off from having to talk about feelings?”

Phil knows he’s being petty and childish.  He doesn’t have it in him right now to care.

Normally this would be the official opening play of a fight.  Rita would give an annoyed sigh, Phil would respond with something sarcastic-bordering-on-mean, and the fun would just continue from there.

But either Rita is taking pity on him today, or he’s faking it even worse than he thinks.  Phil doesn’t like either option, but he’s grateful when Rita just nods curtly.  “Okay.”

25 miles to Punxsutawney.

At least the heater has stopped screeching.  

That whole ‘silence is deafening’ thing is annoyingly cliche.  It also has a bad habit of being real sometimes.  

Phil’s still in no mood to talk.  It doesn’t change the fact that he knows Rita means well.  “I’m sorry,” Phil says about three miles later.

“It’s okay,” Rita replies, too quickly.  

“No, it wasn’t, I was-”

“Oh, you were,” Rita finishes quickly.  She glances at the digital clock on the car.  “I’m taking the next…” Rita pauses for a mental calculation.  “36 hours off from calling you on your bullshit.  Special occasion.”

Phil raises an eyebrow.  “That _is_ a special occasion.”  

“Don’t get used to it.”

Phil sighs.  “I mean it, you don’t have to go easy on me, Rita.”

“And you don’t have to act like nothing’s wrong.”

Phil’s eyes fix on the road ahead.  “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Dunno.”  She meets his gaze from the other side of the car.  Steadying her left head on the steering wheel, Rita offers Phil her right hand.  

He doesn’t _need_ this.

It does feel nice.

Phil clears his throat.  “Sorry, I know I-”

She half-heartedly hits his arm.  “You are incorrigible, Phil Connors.”

Phil’s smile is shameless.  “It’s why you like me.”

Rita rolls her eyes, but she can't hide the affection.  “We got another 15 miles. You wanna play 20 questions?”

Phil scoffs.  “As if you could beat me.”

 

* * *

 

Past the “Welcome to Punxsutawney!” sign.  Into the B&B.  How many more borders are there to cross?  Phil waits for thunder to clap, for a force field to shimmer into place.

He gets nothing so dramatic. Even Mr. Harelson's cat doesn't look up from her usual spot on the fence.

Phil is no stranger to Punxsutawney at night.  But for all that the town hasn't really changed, the shadows have shifted position just enough to be disorienting.

Of course Mrs. Lancaster is thrilled to see them again.  The familiar smell of floral soap and cinnamon is still there when he hugs her. Her smile is so genuine that Phil is able to put aside for just a moment that he may be walking into a trap.  It's not as if Mrs. L is his once (and potentially future) jailer.  

The B&B hasn't changed, other than a few new extension cords.  Phil fondly traces his hand over the top of the coffee maker - he'll find out tomorrow if his jury rigged repairs really have held up all year.  Phil once hated that antique with a passion.  Now he finds himself quietly rooting for it.

The hour ticks onward.

Maybe in the end, the last possible moment to escape is right now as they’re lying in bed.  He could get up, get dressed, tell Rita that this all was a horrible mistake and that they need to leave _now_.

But the raw fear from a few hours ago has vanished with the crossing of some unmarked border.  The truth is Phil knows this ceiling very, _very_ well.  There's comfort in what's familiar.

He still can’t sleep.

Phil turns so that his chest is pressed against Rita’s back.  Her breathing is soft and steady.  “You know, I still don’t get why you’re here.”

“Haven’t you figured it out?” Rita murmurs.  “I’m only using you for your body heat.”

Phil pauses to consider that idea.  “Oh.” Well, that at least makes sense.

He brings one hand down to the small of Rita’s back.  He lets the other rest along her hip.  Rita’s fingers interlock around Phil's own.  “You know technically if I get trapped here again, you're stuck too.  You sure you want to do this?”

She adjusts so that her head lies against the crook of Phil's neck.  “Well, I’m too tired to move.  And there are worse people to get stuck in eternity with.”

Phil laughs softly. “That may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Rita half-heartedly tosses a pillow in the direction of Phil’s face.  It lands with a soft thump on the floor.  “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

This really isn't a bad place to stay for a while.

 

* * *

 

Phil’s phone alarm is set for 5:45.  By 5:15, he's fully conscious with no hope of falling back asleep.

Next to him, Rita is also awake. “Hey Woodchuck Chucker,” she whispers.

He combs a hand through her curls.  “Morning yourself.”

“First time you’re waking up on this February 2nd?” she asks softly.

“Well, so far.”

“So far is good.”  She meets his eyes. “You sure you won’t get bored if we start this way every morning for the next few decades?”  Rita’s tone is playful, but Phil knows her well enough to hear the vulnerability hidden behind the question.

If you had asked him a year ago, he would have insisted that Rita was fearless.  Phil knows her better now, he can spot indecision and doubt where once he saw only bravado.  The fact that she goes on pretending anyway only makes him love her more.  

Maybe they're not that different after all.

He pulls her over against him.  “Never.”

He's content to just stay there for long minutes, breathing in Rita's scent.

“So you're up?” Phil asks after a time.

“Yup.”

“Good.” Phil's smile is small but bright.  “I've got a lot I want to show you.”

 

* * *

 

Outside of Gobbler’s Knob, the rest of Punxsutawney is quiet at 5:45 AM.  Soon they’ll need to be on the Knob and meet the day’s cameraman.  (Not Larry, who is in town but taking the day off to enjoy the festivities with Nancy).  For now, Phil needs to figure out how to show Rita as many insignificant wonders as he possibly can within 24 hours.

“Okay, what exactly are we looking for?” Rita asks.

Phil's eyes light up when finally he spots the abandoned farm. “Over here.”

He takes Rita's hand and leads her to a storm shelter door in the ground.  It takes a little more work than usual, but he gets the doors to open - you always just had to find the right place to apply pressure.

The doors open onto a precarious staircase leading downwards into the ground. Phil grins.

“Phil, I swear I really do trust you, but I am _not_ going down there.”

He dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand. “Trust me, you don't want to.  The fifth step down caves in if you put any pressure on it.”  A sheepish look passes over his face. “Broke my leg more than once that way.”

Rita raises her eyebrow. “You know, there's some saying about people who walk into the same holes over and over again.”

“I'll make sure to think of you next time I break my leg.”

Rita puts a hand on his arm.  “Hey, I'm just saying you owe it to yourself to fall in the hole you _didn't_ know about.”

He pries open the wood beneath the second step and pulls out a metal box. It’s shifted in position, so someone must have touched it in the last year.  He opens the lid.

“And over here, we have Jeff's stash of unmentionables.” Most of the contents are what you'd expect - a few magazines with scantily clad men on the cover and a half-frozen bottle of Evan Williams.

Rita eyes the bottle dubiously. “So, has the amount left gone down at all?”

“Nope.” The liquid is frozen right above the label. Different position, but about the same volume.  

“I don’t know whether to feel relieved that no one has tried to drink frozen booze, or feel bad that a perfectly good cheap bourbon met that fate.”

“Trust me, it doesn’t keep its flavor after it's been frozen.”

“Poor Evan Williams, this is _not_ your fault.”

Phil moves aside a few volumes of men's magazines. “Good, it's still here.” Phil pulls out a sketchbook and flips through a few pages.  Some of the drawings are in pencil, some in marker. The old oak by the edge of town, depicted in a riotous bloom of Autumn color. Familiar faces from the diner, drawn with penciled affection. It looks like Wilbur is a new one – Phil can only hope that’s going well.

“Kid's got talent,” Rita muses.  It’s true. Phil’s brief drawing phase never took off – no matter what he told himself, it was just too frustrating to wake up every morning with the previous day’s work erased. Music worked better on that front, a fact that he has to thank for his intact sanity.

“I asked him about it once.  Jeff insisted it was just something he did for fun.”

Maybe if he had a thousand lifetimes of this day, Phil would know more.  He could figure out more about what Jeff's been up to this year, maybe ask enough questions over enough days to get to something beyond the shyness.

Instead, Phil adds Jeff to his mental list of people he needs to catch up with later.

Rita turns over to reveal the next page – an oversized Punxsutawney Phil trampling through the town Godzilla style.  It’s nice to see Jeff branching out. “How did you find this, anyway?”

“I got _really_ bored the third time I broke my leg on that fucking step.”

This time Rita winces.

“C'mon, weren't you just making fun of me for making the same mistake over and over?” The expression on her face doesn't change.  “It was really late at night and the day was about to reset anyway.  And Punxsutawney General smells weird.”

There were other times here too.  When it wasn't just by accident.

Sometimes a man just wanted to go someplace _quiet_ to die.

Phil supposes the memories won't ever fade completely. Maybe some shadows will always make him jump.  But for better or worse, his February 2nd is over.  As much as he can, Phil wants to spend time in someplace other than the loops in his head.

Rita's still looking at him, as if she senses what he's thinking. Phil appreciates it more than she’ll ever know.

He'll dig up old joys and old wounds today, and he'll breathe easier once he  wakes up in his own bed tomorrow morning. And then he wants to play piano, and read, and spend time with old and new friends, and banter about ridiculous stuff with Rita, and _live._

Phil smiles as he replaces Jeff's box underneath the stairs and resets the wooden beam.  He stands up and takes to walking backwards, tour-guide style.  “And if you look to the right, you’ll see the school building annex.”

Rita catches up with him and takes his hand. “It really is kind of like you’re showing me around your hometown.”

Phil will never be a fan of deja vu.  He’ll make an exception for today.  

You came from Columbus, he thinks. I came from February 2nd in Punxsutawney last year.

“It really is.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning light, Punxsutawney is different place.  A little more like the world he remembers, but also completely different.

Gobbler’s Knob is so crowded it’s almost impossible to move - only the faces of the tourists have changed, really.  Rita just shakes her head affectionately when Phil grumbles about no longer knowing the best way to get through the crowd.

Of course, that's not really what's delaying them - he gets stopped about every five steps by an old friend.  Yet again, Phil is overwhelmed by the love of these people. They’ve known him for a day, and for all that Phil has been terrible at keeping up at keeping up this year, it makes no difference in their enthusiasm or warmth.

Larry comes over to heckle as they get set up for the forecast. He and Nancy are wearing matching Groundhog scarves.  Phil would find the whole thing cloying if not for how they both quietly smile when they hold hands.

Later, he and Rita will eat at Chuck’s Diner and Phil will hear all about Doris’s singing lessons and applaud heartily when he hears her humming Proud Mary in the kitchen.  He’ll fiercely embrace Fred and Debbie and tell Fred that of course he’s coming to the bachelor party. He’ll gratefully accept Ned’s dinner invitation and spend the evening denying embarrassing stories from high school.  He’ll put flowers on Mr. Jensen’s grave and explain to Rita how a homeless man changed the way he looked at the world.

But first, he has a forecast.

“So, once again we're here with the world's most famous weatherman,” he begins, full of practiced poise and charm.  “Definitely not me.” That gets the cameraman to laugh, which is a good sign. “And not even Al Roker.  Sorry, buddy.  No, we’re here with my namesake, Punxsutawney Phil.”

“That is _not_ true,” comes Rita’s voice from off camera.

Phil chuckles under his breath.  “What are you talking about?  The guy is over a hundred years old, clearly he came first.  These guys just like to heckle me about my age.”  He points to where Rita is standing next to the cameraman.  “Shout out to the hardworking Channel Five crew here, who actually do the real work. I don’t even have to predict the weather today.  Oh, and that emphatic gesturing from our crew means the show is about to start here.”

The camera turns off.  Rita hands him back his cup of coffee.  “Am I laying it on too thick?”

Rita shakes her head. “You’re having a good time, and viewers pick up on that.” She grabs his hand. “C’mon, I think Phil’s coming out.”

Phil notes that Buster has a new top hat this year and that there are a few new member among the council of elders.  Phil never believed in magic before last Groundhog Day.  Even after what he experienced he’s not sure what he thinks.  But maybe there’s something sacred here in the ritual and reverence.

His rival raises his furry brown head out from his burrow.  Phil is relieved to see that it actually _is_ the same groundhog.  Buster leans in close to the marmot’s ear.  Phil can’t make out the expression on his face.

A long, quiet moment passes.  Rita clutches his hand so tightly it almost hurts (he doesn’t mind).  Buster proudly ascends to the podium.  “Punxsutawney Phil, seer of seers, prognosticator of prognosticators, has declared in groundhog-ese that he did _not_ see his shadow.” Buster grins. “It’s an early spring!”

The crowd erupts in cheers.  Phil lets out a small, disbelieving smile and meets Rita’s eyes, excited and brimming with life.  

Maybe the universe still has surprises left in store yet.

Their cameraman gives them the signal.  Phil resumes his weatherman poise, the armor of his onscreen persona firmly in place.  “Well, folks, this is different - an early spring, huh?  I think Phil has seen his shadow every time since I started doing this event.” He can’t remember if that’s true, but certainly within his infinity of February 2nds.  “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to put on some sunscreen and shorts.”

It would be easy to wrap it up with a few good-natured jokes and his tagline.  But this day is only happening once.  (Probably). He might as well go for it.

“It's easy to think everything will always stay the same.  That’s safer, more predictable.  But the truth is I had a 1 in 1,600,000 chance of getting hit by a meteor this morning. And thank God I didn’t, because then it would have hit Mrs. Lancaster’s Bed and Breakfast and she really does have the best scones this side of the Atlantic.”

He’s looking at the camera, but also past it to Rita.  She nods once.  Phil continues.

“The world itself is a forever changing, evolving organism.  And so are we.”  Phil laughs.  “Literally.  With the exception of stuff like cerebral cortex neurons and tooth enamel, even most of our cells are constantly dying and coming back again.  Kind of like spring, really.”

“Maybe we’re all just being pulled along on the world's...on time’s roller coaster ride."  He meets Rita’s eyes, mirroring back at him something small and bright.  Close by are old and new friends, along with friends yet to be made.

"But if that’s the case, then there is nowhere I would rather be today than here.”

In just a moment, the camera will shut off.  Phil will take three long strides over to Rita and smile as she leans against his chest and teases him.  He’ll try and fail to think of a witty comeback, but he won’t actually mind.

And then the next and the next, for as long as they both can.  

That’s ultimately the best part about time moving forward.

“I’m Phil Connors, and that’s good weather.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for everyone who read this all the way to the end. If you told me this time last year that I would write 35,000+ words of a Groundhog Day story I would have laughed, but here I am!
> 
> Also thank you to everyone who commented along the way. I'm not always good about replying, but it really meant the world to me. This story has truly been a labor of love, and a way for me to get through some really difficult times this year.
> 
> One of my other GHD stories, "Gods, or Aliens with Super Powers" technically takes place in the same continuity, just in case you're curious what Phil and Rita are up to down the line.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!!!


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